


A Treason of Truths

by CR Noble (erudite12)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst with a happy-ish ending, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Dark!Charlie, Dom/sub Undertones, Faerie!Cas, Faeries - Freeform, M/M, Magic Rituals, Major Character Injury, Mark of Cain, Minor Character Deaths, Orgasm Denial, Public Humiliation, Smut, Top!Cas, Well mostly happy, a touch of lovecraftian horror, bottom!Dean, but just a touch, creature!fic, impromptu amputation, moc!dean, spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 17:44:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erudite12/pseuds/CR%20Noble
Summary: When the time comes for The Seelie Court to confront the Dark Realm about their attempted conquests of surrounding kingdoms, Castiel asks that Dean accompany him on a diplomatic trip to The Royal City in the center of the Dark Realm. Dean is unable to refuse his lover, especially because he knows the danger the King will be in.But Dean has a dangerous secret that could cost him both his love and his life. Will their relationship survive the discovery of a sinister plot for the Fomóraigh to take over the Otherworld?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright! Here is my Fantasy Romance written for the Destiel Harlequin Challenge 2019!! It probably isn't what you might consider a traditional romance, but those of you who know me? Well, you know this is just my style. And you'll probably be happy that I gave them a mostly happy ending lol.
> 
> This was super fun to write and I hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> A few thank yous: Fanfictions Mightiest Heroes, you know who you are, and y'all encouraged the crap out of me and squeed and helped with ideas when things just decided to show up in the fic without my permission. You guys are awesome and I love you!
> 
> Nyx (who probably isn't reading this anyway) for reading 565841354654 excerpts for this fic even though you don't ship Destiel. I sort of a little bit managed to work the thing in. You know what thing. Anyway, I love you.
> 
> Extra super huge thank you to justanotherbusyfangirl for saving my whole ass life with the last minute beta read on this fic. You're amazing!
> 
> For the challenge, I got to work with an awesome artist, Deancebra. Make sure you check out the two art pieces in Chapter 1 and go reblog the masterpost on Tumblr! [Art Masterpost](https://deancebra-art.tumblr.com/post/186905579053/made-for-the-destielharlequinchallenge-for-this)
> 
> Also, just as a general note, some of this is based in actual Irish mythology, and some of it I just made up. There are a lot of Irish phrases and words that may not necessarily be exact translations or be 100% correct. Its actually really difficult to find a decent translator and even more difficult to find someone who speaks the language. So, please forgive my use of google translate for some of this stuff. 
> 
> Translations are list by chapter in the notes at the beginning. Repeated phrases are only listed once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irish Translations  
_grá mo chroí_— my dearest love  
_Ardrí_— High King  
_Mo Ardrí_— My High King  
_Cosantóir_— Protector (title)  
_Ellyllon_— Welsh elves  
_Diabhlaí_— evil/diabolical

The sun filtered into the room through the gossamer thin, frosted glass and onto Dean’s face as he lay in bed. It wasn’t really glass and he wasn’t really in a room. Faerie homes didn’t quite work that way. It was a palace but not in the traditional sense. There were no stone walls or parapets. No soaring towers, battlements, or portcullises. In fact, to anyone that didn’t know better, it would appear completely indefensible. It was not, of course. It was protected by nature, the very earth from whence it grew. 

You see, faeries don't build their houses and palaces, they grow them. The trees grow as necessary, creating the walls and cavernous spaces within as the faeries sing and dance their spells into existence. Small houses only require a single tree but palaces were often grown from entire forests. If one didn't know what to look for, it would seem like a tangle of thick trunks and limbs that grew too close together to allow any human to pass through. 

Green leaves formed the canopy roof, thick enough to prevent any rain from penetrating to dampen the lives of those residing within. Vines of ivy climbed the walls outside and in, twining through the gaps in the branches and wrapping around the large trunks in intricately decorative designs. Yet more green ivy tangled around the edges of the windows.

This particular palace was vast, the home of the King of the Seelie Court, and housed hundreds of fae royalty and nobility. The “glass” in the windows was actually sap, sung into thin panes that cast an amber glow across everything within when the sun shone through it. So, the glow was cast across Dean's skin, bathing his bare, already tanned chest in its warmth as he lay on a mattress made of soft, fragrant pine needles contained with cloth made of spider-silk.

The room itself was large and opulent, even with the walls decorated only by the wild foliage that grew into the tree-castle. The walls, floors, and ceilings were much smoother than any you might find in the domicile of a human. The furniture was part of the tree as well, grown out into the needed shape by the songs of the faeries that made it. There was a large, raised platform upon which the pine and silk mattress sat, and at its end was the chest for storage. The leaf of a massive firm lay on the floor between the chest and a set of book-lined shelves in the wall.

Wrapped in his arms and still sleeping peacefully beside him was Castiel, the King of all the faeries within the domain of the Fair Kingdom. Washed in the incandescent gold light, his skin was much paler than Dean’s. He was long and lithe, and even in the relaxation of slumber his features were sharp, eyes turned up slightly at the outside corner, nose and chin long and almost pointed. His prominent cheekbones were high on his face and his ears were long, curving just a little before reaching their pointed ends. The short hair atop his head was as wild as the palace he called home, and much like that place, was entirely untamable. Even by the high standard of Aes Sídhe, Castiel was beautiful.

Dean was no less beautiful in his own way. He had a defined, square jaw covered in a dusting of scruffy stubble, full pink lips under a slightly crooked nose. Unlike Castiel, his hair was unkempt but compliant and neatly trimmed around his rounded, very human ears. As he stretched, the strong, taut muscles of his back rippled and he blinked the sleep away from his verdant eyes. The movement disturbed his lover’s sleep and Castiel rolled to face him with a drowsy smile.

“Good morning,” Dean said, smiling as he met the blue eyes of the man he’d loved for well over a century. 

Castiel tilted his head up, pressing his lips softly against Dean’s. They kissed slowly, lazily, tasting each other fully as the heat between them built. Their hands drifted across each other’s skin in soft, tender caresses, pulling closer, impossibly close. Dean was breathless when Castiel rolled him onto his back. He hovered over Dean, taking his time exploring Dean’s body with tender, deliberate kisses and licks, encouraged by the way Dean’s breath hitched as Castiel tasted his skin.

Dean moaned, eyes fluttering shut as Castiel suddenly took his already hard cock into the wet warmth of his mouth. Looking down as he threaded his fingers through his lover’s mane of dark hair, Dean watched Castiel start a teasingly slow rhythm. He locked eyes with Dean as his head bobbed slowly, exposing nearly the entire length of Dean’s shaft before taking it wholly and making Dean’s toes curl as he swallowed around him. Despite the insistence of Dean’s hands tugging at his hair, Castiel did not change his pace, preferring to draw out the pleasure until Dean was a moaning, compliant, begging mess beneath him.

“Castiel,” Dean groaned, watching his lover with lust-blown eyes. “Please, I want to feel you.”

Castiel’s leaking cock ached to be touched but he was nothing if not a giving lover. He pulled off of Dean, letting his shaft bounce against his stomach as Castiel spread his thighs further and exposed his hole. Dean gasped as Castiel’s tongue circled his rim and he canted his hips up to give the faerie more access. Castiel laved at Dean, groaning lasciviously at the eagerness with which Dean ground into his ministrations. Castiel reached for the jar of oily nectar they kept near the bed, dipping his finger inside and making sure it was generously covered. He suckled at the flesh of Dean’s inner thigh and circled his hole with the oil covered finger. As slowly and deliberately as Castiel had done everything else so far, he pushed past the resistance of Dean’s rim and into the tight warmth that clenched around him. He worked the finger back and forth until he felt Dean relax around him.

“Open for me,” Castiel commanded, voice low, gravelly, and almost tangibly dripping lust. “Let me fill you.” Taking more of the oil into his hand, he slowly inserted a second finger, crooking them to find and circle that sweet spot that made Dean whine with hungry pleasure. He toyed with Dean slowly until his cock ached, red and leaking, and his body quaked with the desire for release.

“My King, I need you,” Dean begged, trying desperately to pull Castiel up over himself. “Need to feel you inside me, filling me to bursting.”

Castiel moaned at the words, more than happy to oblige his lover. He stroked himself slowly, covering his cock generously with nectar before leaning over to capture Dean’s lips in a searing, possessive kiss. His tongue delved into Dean’s mouth, tasting him fully as he lined himself up and buried his cock to the hilt inside of Dean’s tight heat with one long, achingly slow thrust. Castiel broke the kiss to hold Dean’s gaze with his own as he started a slow grind. Dean’s hands explored Castiel’s back, fingers digging into his flesh as Dean wrapped his legs around his waist, drawing Castiel in deeper.

“Look at me,” Castiel ordered when Dean’s eyes fluttered shut. “I want you to see what you do to me, grá mo chroí.” Their eyes met again, Dean gasping beneath him and rolling his hips up to meet each thrust. Dean watched Castiel’s face, the way his cheeks tinged pink, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth, the way the lust darkened his blue eyes as he slowly, agonizingly drove them both toward the edge. It was a tortuous build, the heat in his belly stoked to a raging inferno.

“Ardrí,” a voice said from the doorway. 

Dean groaned, tightening his grip on Castiel as they continued their lovemaking.

“What is it, Inias?” Castiel asked in a bored tone, never looking away from Dean as he pulled out almost entirely and thrust hard enough that Dean slid up the slick silk of the mattress with an exquisite moan.

“There is an urgent matter in one of the outer territories requiring your attention,” Inias replied politely, though his distaste for the King’s choice of bed-warmer was obvious in his tone.

“Very well. I shall be in the throne room shortly.” Castiel wrapped one arm around Dean’s waist, lifting his hips just off the bed and wildly driving Dean closer to the edge. He gripped Dean’s cock and stroked firmly as his thrusts lost their rhythm and then they were both crying out. Dean spilled over Castiel’s hand and his own stomach, clenching around Castiel, and throwing him shuddering into his own release.

Resting his forehead against Dean’s, they lay together for another moment, panting. Eventually, Castiel smiled wryly and said, “Good morning, Dean.”

Dean chuckled, low in his throat and winced a little, pressing a chaste kiss to his lover’s lips as Castiel pulled out slowly and grabbed a cloth made from the same soft silk as the cover on the mattress for them to clean up with. “We should dress. I’m curious to know what is so important that Inias would interrupt our amory. His distaste for me is palpable and I can’t imagine its pleasant for him to see how well you enjoy my company.”

“His aversion to you is not personal, Dean.” Castiel crossed the room back over to the bed, still gloriously naked, leaned over to whisper in Dean’s ear. “He simply wishes it was him writhing beneath me and calling out my name in ecstasy.”

Dean laughed uproariously and shoved his lover away gently so he could roll out of bed to stand. From the chest, he pulled a loose white linen shirt and soft, deep green pants and donned them, his chest still mostly exposed by the deep vee of the collar. Belting it with an unadorned vine, he looked over to see that Castiel was similarly dressed. The braided silver circlet wrapped around his head was the only item indicating his station as the king. He held a hand out to Dean and when Dean took it, led him out of the room and through the halls toward the seat of his power.

The walls were less solid in the corridors, sun shining in through the gaps where the limbs of multiple trees twisted together to form them. Where Dean moved with the natural gracelessness of humanity, Castiel veritably glided, his head held high and proud as they made their way, passing several other fae that came to call upon the court. 

Dean was certain he would never get used to the variety of creature that roamed the palace. Some, like Castiel, appeared almost human, but others were shaped like insects or birds. Some were any combination thereof. It wasn’t uncommon to see a faerie with an entirely humanoid body and face, but having antlers protruding from their heads or colorfully gleaming feathers instead of hair. It was undeniable that they were all beautiful in their own ways.

Before very long, the corridor opened into the vast throne room. It wasn’t plain like the bedroom. Instead, rich tapestries were draped along the walls depicting scenes of all the kings and queens that had ever occupied the throne. Branches twisted inward, their leaves hanging to frame orbs made from sap which would glow in the night, providing light when the moon was not bright enough to illuminate the ceilingless room. In the center, a long, deep red carpet of rose petals led to the raised dais on which sat the highest seat of power in the Otherworld. The throne itself dominated the room magnificently. Its high back of wildly twisting tree limbs towered over the seat itself and it was almost completely covered in pink and white blossoms that never faded.

Castiel released Dean’s hand, regally making his way across the soft rose petals to take his place on the throne. As soon as he sat, pink and white blossoms shook themselves from the back of the chair, landing on the king’s back and coming together to form a flowing cloak that pooled behind him and hung delicately over his broad shoulders. The spectacle never failed to amaze Dean, as new blooms appeared immediately to take the place of those that had fallen, until Castiel looked as though he and the throne were one and the same.

As he did every time Castiel took his throne, Dean fell to one knee at his feet, bowing his head with a reverent “Mo Ardrí.”

“You may rise, Cosantóir,” Castiel replied, no longer addressing Dean as the man he loved and shared his bed with, but as his appointed Protector and a highly esteemed member of the Seelie Court. Dean did so and took his place, standing to the left of the throne and the King who sat upon it. “Inias, please report on the urgent matter that interrupted my most pleasant morning.”

“My King,” Inias began, stepping forward and bowing his head in deference. “There is news about the Fomóraigh. Initially it began with attacks on solitary fae, selkies, banshees, brownies and the like, however word has just reached the castle that they have launched a raid, albeit an unsuccessful one, on a village near the outskirts of the Seelie Kingdom. Specifically, an ellyllon outpost. Fortunately, casualties were minimal.”

“That is a clear breach of our treaty.” Dean swallowed nervously as he spoke. The news was not good by any means, and even worse for him. An invasion by the Fomóraigh would end in the death of many, but Dean’s fate would be far worse than that. 

“Yes it is,” Inias agreed. “The treaty was… tenuous at its best and I am not surprised in the slightest the diabhlaí Fomóraigh have broken it. It was simply a matter of time.”

Dean tensed almost imperceptibly at the tone of the king’s advisor. He let his personal feelings about their enemies color his judgment far too much.

“Thank you, Inias,” Castiel said, his brow furrowed in his concentration. “I, however, refuse to believe that all Fomóraigh are diabolical by nature. Perhaps something can be done through an outreach of diplomacy.” He looked over his shoulder at Dean. “Cosantóir, what are your thoughts on how this threat should be handled?”

Dean peered thoughtfully down at the king. He agreed wholeheartedly that not every Fomórach was evil at heart but they were volatile, particularly when threatened. Though the Court certainly had the power to end their attempts at conquest through means of violence, it would not end well for either kingdom. On the other hand, the only way to reach out diplomatically would be to send someone into the belly of the beast: Ifreann, the capital city of the Dark Realm. Unlike Inias, Dean put his own personal feelings aside when he formed his opinion. “We should approach the problem from both angles, mo Ardrí.”

Inias, as usual, appeared none too happy about Dean being included in the discussion at all. As far as he was concerned, a human-consort of the king or otherwise-should have no say in the affairs of the Court. “My King-”

Castiel interrupted him with a raised hand, keeping his cool gaze fixed on Dean. “Please continue, Cosantóir.”

“It is my opinion that the Aes Sídhe should prepare for war. Gather any able fae from the central territories here in the castle to ready themselves. Arm those in the outlying districts, discreetly, of course. Send a small diplomatic party into the Dark Realm. Perhaps they can come to a new peace agreement, but if they cannot, the Court will not be struck unaware by any attack.”

It was a sound plan and Dean already knew Castiel would agree to it. He had become the King’s Cosantóir based solely on the proving of his skill. Perhaps they should find someone less… offensive than Inias to lead the mission to Ifreann. He would surely ruin any chance they had of finding peace.

“Very well. Inias, send messengers to every city and village within our borders passing on this plan.” Castiel stood, the cloak of flowers floating delicately down to settle at his knees. “I will depart for Ifreann at first light tomorrow.”

Both Dean and Inias took a step toward Castiel as their protests filled the air. “My King,” said Inias. “It is far too dangerous for you to step foot into the Dark Realm. Our people need you.”

“For once, I agree,” Dean said. “Send someone else. It is too great a risk to your life. If you fall, the Seelie Court will fall with you.”

“The Seelie Court does not rely on my existence to carry on.” Castiel glared at Dean and it became very clear that no amount of protesting from him would change his decision. “This mission is far too important to delegate. If you are so concerned about the threat to my life, then you may accompany me,  _ Cosantóir _ . As is your duty.”

Dean was unperturbed, glaring back at his King, his love, with the burning intensity of the sun itself. He would not allow harm to befall Castiel under any circumstances, and so would accompany him-even at great risk to himself. Through gritted teeth, he replied, “Very well, mo Ardrí. I will prepare everything for us to begin the journey on the morrow.” Without waiting to be dismissed, Dean turned away from Castiel and stormed out of the throne room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irish Translations  
_Ná cuir dímheas orm, duine_\- roughly Don’t disrespect me, human  
_Caithfidh sibh bheith ciúin_\- you must be quiet  
_bhfuil mo chroí istigh ionat_\- I truly love you  
_Lámh a leagan ar me_\- touch me (specifically in a sexual sense)  
_Le do thoil_\- please

He heard the king call to him but he ignored it. Castiel would be angered by the affront to his authority but that was a problem to be dealt with later. Perhaps his punishment would be harsh. By the standards of the fae, Dean would certainly deserve it. Being openly disrespectful to any faerie was dangerous. Walking away from the Ardrí was almost assuredly a death sentence. Whatever consequence he had to endure from Castiel would be better than what awaited if they went to the Dark Realm.

Rather than make his way to the fields where the Capall Sídhe were kept and telling the Horsemaster to ready their steeds, he went into a small alcove. It had no ceiling and it provided an easy spot to climb up into the canopy of the trees. Preparations for the expedition would not take Dean long and at that very moment, he needed to escape the castle. When he broke through the final layer of leafy cover, he arranged himself on the topmost limb and let the sun beat down on his face. 

None of this was going to end well for him. Dean should have known that eventually his past would come back to haunt him. If Castiel allowed him mercy after his affront, there would be a choice to make. But how could he make it?

The leaves rustled in the light breeze of the eternal summer that graced the Seelie Kingdom, and Dean closed his eyes, pushing away all thoughts of what was to come, to let the warmth of the sun seep through his skin and into his bones. Whatever else happened, Dean knew he would miss this place from the moment he left. Nowhere in the Otherworld could compare. He wished to remain there, in the treetops, for the rest of his days.

Of course, that was not to be. The sun had moved past the midpoint of the sky and Dean’s stomach growled for food. There had been no breakfast that morning and it was past the lunch hour. When he was back inside, he snatched a fruit from one of the many bowls set about the palace. It was his favorite but he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy it, even as the juice escaped his lips and dribbled down his chin.

The rest of the afternoon was spent making sure all things were in order for Dean and Castiel to depart the following day. Dean took his evening meal alone in his own room in an attempt to avoid his lover for as long as possible. That came to a very fast end when he found Castiel standing just inside his door as he turned to throw the fruit rinds out his window for the animals below to feast on. His face was hard and impassive; there was no indication that he forgave Dean’s indiscretion.

“Mo Ardrí,” Dean acknowledged, bowing his head. Castiel was on him impossibly fast, anger burning in his blue eyes as he closed Dean’s shirt in his fist, driving him back harshly into the wall and lifting him so that his toes dangled just off the floor.

“Ná cuir dímheas orm, duine,” the King growled low. The sound of his voice reverberated, vibrating through Dean’s chest.

The anger he’d felt before, in the throne room, welled inside him again. “I will not apologize for being concerned with your safety.” He could fight back, possibly even come close to besting Castiel in combat, but instead he hung there limply. “You mean far too much to me, my King.”

Castiel’s expression softened very slightly, but his eyes were still alight with his ire. “You let your personal feelings for me as your lover interfere with your perception of me as your king.”

“I did as you ordered, did I not?” Dean questioned bitterly. “My concern for you is as my king and my love. I cannot confuse the two because they are the same. I will  _ always  _ do my duty to advise and protect you. But I will not do it blindly or without question.”

They stared at each other angrily for a long moment before Castiel finally lowered Dean, letting his feet fully plant themselves on the floor. “I know that, Dean. And I value your opinions and respect you for exactly that reason. But outside of our private rooms, you must  _ never  _ disrespect me like that.”

Dean had the sense to feel a mild pang of guilt at the childish tantrum. “I let my emotions get the better of me. It will not happen again, mo Ardrí,” he said. It was the closest Castiel would get to an apology, and he would have to be satisfied with it. Dean reached up and cupped Castiel’s cheek in one hand, trying to convey how he felt with that singular touch.

Castiel leaned into it and sighed, his anger seeming to deflate as he did so. “You realize I must punish you.” Dean nodded. “Come to bed with me. I would not be away from you this night.”

With that, the King turned on his heel and walked out of Dean’s room without looking back. Dean waited a moment, catching his breath, before following Castiel down the corridor to his chamber. The light of the setting sun still broke through the windows and gaps in the walls, bathing everything in a soft orange glow. Dean knew he would miss it when they left the palace.

When they passed through the doorway into the King’s bedchamber, Castiel gestured toward the bed. Dean walked toward it, stripping off the linen shirt and soft leggings he’d worn all day and letting them fall to the floor as he went. Almost as soon as Dean’s back hit the mattress, Castiel waved a hand and vines appeared, seemingly from nowhere. They grew quickly, snaking across the silk and twining themselves around Dean’s wrists and ankles, stretching his limbs out so he was fixed spread-eagle to the bed. Dean pulled against his bindings, but was hardly able to move at all.

“Caithfidh sibh bheith ciúin, Grá mo chroí,” Castiel said, a dark tinge to his voice that simultaneously put Dean on edge and made it so he already struggled not to make a sound. “Nod if you will obey me.”

Dean nodded immediately, watching as Castiel walked around to the foot of the bed. The faerie leaned over and trailed his fingers up the inside of Dean’s leg, starting at the ankle and traveling slowly and inexorably higher, and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Castiel followed his hand with his lips, kissing and sucking at the flesh of Dean’s inner thigh. The muscle flexed under the ministrations of the king’s mouth and Dean’s breath hitched in his chest. He was entirely certain there was no possible way he could make it through this without breaking his silence.

Rather than torture himself by watching Castiel, Dean let his head fall back and closed his eyes. He let himself be lost in the sensations of Castiel’s hands, lips, tongue, teeth on his skin. They traveled over the entirety of Dean’s body, each new touch in a different, unexpected spot. Dean kept his eyes clamped shut and tried to concentrate on his breathing, keeping himself calm enough not to cry out when he felt Castiel’s tongue flicking against a sensitive nipple, biting down hard on his lower lip when Castiel sucked the taut nub into his mouth.

His heart was already pounding in his chest, his breath already shallow and labored. No matter where Castiel’s hands and mouth were, they never quite touched Dean’s already achingly hard cock. That, more than anything, made him want to break his silence and beg for Castiel to touch him,especially when Dean could feel Castiel’s hot breath against the taut skin.

But he would not disobey his king.

Not even when Castiel sank his teeth into the fleshy part of Dean’s shoulder and rutted against his thigh. “You’re doing so well, Dean,” Castiel praised, his voice a low whisper, heavy with need. His breath fanned across Dean’s ear and his hard length pressed against Dean’s leg with every slow roll of his hips. It was enough to drive any man mad, but even though Dean couldn’t stand to keep his eyes shut any longer, he managed not to make any noise beyond the shuddering of his own breath.

Castiel dragged a finger across Dean’s lower lip, pulling it down and exposing the teeth behind it. “Do you want me to fill you here?” he asked before lazily letting his hand move down over Dean’s chest and stomach, tracing a hip bone, and brushing a finger against his hole. “Or would you rather have me here?”

Dean’s eyes flicked across Castiel’s face, taking in the twinkle of his blue eyes and the slight upturn of one corner of his mouth. He was most certainly toying with Dean, trying to make him speak. The amusement on Castiel’s face was clear as Dean remained silent through some miracle of the gods.

Castiel swung a leg over Dean, straddling his stomach. Dean had no idea when Castiel had undressed, but he was entirely naked. His hot skin touched Dean’s until Dean was certain that when Castiel moved he would leave behind scorch marks. He did move, finally, making his way slowly up Dean’s chest on his knees until the leaking head of his cock was brushing against Dean’s lips. 

Dean needed no further prompting to open his mouth and let Castiel push past the barrier of his lips with a deep, chesty moan. Castiel took his mouth roughly—mercilessly—and it would be a lie if Dean said he didn’t enjoy every second of it. He had no control at all over anything that happened, and he found himself gagging harshly more than once as Castiel thrust wildly, hard and deep, into his throat. The wanton sounds Castiel made would have taken Dean’s breath away if he could breathe at that moment. As it was, they sent spikes of arousal through his body and straight to his cock, leaving it aching for attention.

When Castiel pulled out of his mouth, Dean coughed and spluttered, gasping for air but through sheer force of will made no other sounds. Castiel moved fluidly, rolling so he was no longer straddling Dean but stretched out and pressed against Dean’s side. He grabbed Dean’s chin, forcing him to turn his head and meet those startlingly blue eyes. 

“Bhfuil mo chroí istigh ionat, Dean,” Castiel said, softly caressing Dean’s cheek. Then his tongue was gently exploring Dean’s mouth, a stark contrast to the way Castiel had treated him so roughly moments before. It was breathtaking in its own way and when Castiel pulled away to return showering affectionate kisses and licks to his flesh, Dean had to bite back a disappointed whine.

Still Castiel did not touch Dean’s cock. He disappeared for a moment and when he returned, slick fingers were pressing past the tight ring of muscle at Dean’s hole and stretching him. When Castiel’s fingertips brushed against that sweet spot, Dean couldn’t not cry out the pleasure that tore through him, arching his back even while restrained. 

To his surprise, Castiel did not reprimand him. He chuckled low in his throat and continued his ministrations until Dean’s cock was leaking and jumping at every press of Castiel’s fingertips into that sweet spot. The lack of attention was becoming painful by the time Castiel pulled his fingers out of Dean’s hole and replaced them by burying his length there instead. 

Gripping Dean’s hip with one hand, Castiel thrust into him with wild abandon, still ignoring Dean’s aching shaft. Dean thought he would either cry or black out, or both, from the mixed sensations of intense pleasure and pain. He’d given up attempting to be silent, broken pleas and keening moans spilling from him, but Castiel didn’t seem to care. The faerie was lost in his own pleasure, groaning licentiously and running his free hand over the sweat-sheened skin of his own chest. 

The sight alone brought Dean right to the very edge of pleasure, but he couldn’t tumble over without the warm, firm grip of his lover on his shaft. He hovered, teetering painfully on the brink until Castiel’s thrusts became more erratic and he finally stilled, emptying himself into Dean with a shout that reverberated in Dean’s chest. Castiel steadied himself with hands on Dean’s chest, the rise and fall of his chest erratic as he caught his breath.

“Lámh a leagan ar me, Castiel,” Dean breathed, desperate for release. The ache in his groin was nearly unbearable. “Please, mo ardrí.”

“No, Dean,” Castiel said, shaking his head and softly caressing Dean’s cheek. “I cannot. This is your punishment, grá mo chroí.” 

Dean shook his own head in response. “Please, Cas,” he begged using the shortened version of the king’s name that only Dean was allowed to use. He sounded pathetic, even to his own ears. “Le do thoil.”

Castiel pulled away, removing himself from Dean and returning a moment later with a cloth to clean them both. Dean blinked back tears and tried to think of anything other than his painfully swollen cock.

“You must not touch yourself, Dean,” Castiel said, waving a hand to release the bindings. “If you do, I shall have to find some other form of punishment. It will be something far more painful, public, and humiliating.”

Dean nodded, rubbing his wrists and wiggling his fingers until sensation returned fully to his hands. He’d been so high on sensation that he hadn’t realized how hard he was pulling against the vines. He would take his punishment, knowing full well that tomorrow night Castiel would allow him the boon of release as long as he didn’t fight it. The knowledge did nothing to soften his erection or dull the painful throb in his groin.

He tried to turn away from Castiel and lay on his side, but the position proved to increase the ache. This was not the first time Dean had been punished in this way. He knew from experience that the pain would dull and so he settled onto his back and closed his eyes. Castiel joined him on the bed, wrapping an arm around him and resting his head in the crook of Dean’s shoulder.

“I do love you, Dean.” Castiel threw a leg over Dean’s thigh, being careful to avoid his sore groin. “Very much.”

“I know. Come, we must sleep. First light is not long from now and we must be prepared to leave.”

With that, they settled in for the night, moonlight glowing softly through the window. Dean did not sleep well. Not because of his punishment, but because he couldn’t stop thinking about what a journey to Ifreann would mean for him. For Castiel. For their relationship.

Dean would have to tell Castiel everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irish Translations  
_Seanchara_\- old friend  
_in ainm Dé_\- in the name of God (used as an expletive interjection)  
_oíche mhaith_\- good night

Dean was already dreading the day’s ride as he and Castiel made their way to the fields where the Capall Sídhe were kept. He carried their packs on his back, while Castiel carried only the longsword at his hip in its intricately detailed sheath. Other than the well-crafted weapon, Castiel was dressed plainly in tan deerskin, entirely unadorned. It was far too dangerous for him to appear royal as they traveled. Dean had, in fact, tried to convince him to carry a different sword, as anyone who got too close to them would easily recognize it as the sword passed from one Seelie King to the next. But he had been unsuccessful.

“How long will the journey take?” Castiel asked, walking regally next to Dean. No amount of dressing down could hide the fact that Castiel was high born. He was too graceful, too beautiful to be mistaken for anything else.

“If all goes well and there are no unforeseen incidents, we should reach the outer territory of the Dark Realm in a fortnight.” Dean adjusted the weight of one of the packs so they balanced more evenly. “Ifreann is another two days’ ride from there.”

Castiel nodded. “I would like to detour to the Unseelie Court. With the possibility of war on the horizon, we should seek their assistance.”

Of course, if he was going to make an already dangerous journey, Castiel would choose to make it even more dangerous. Stepping across the boundary of one enemy’s territory was not enough. Dean sighed, resigning himself to having to work far harder than he wished to. “Very well, mo Ardrí. That will add at least four days to our ride. I advised Ellie to prepare extra provisions so we should have enough for the extra time.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, stepping out into the light of the rising sun when the reached the passage to the Capall pastures.

The fields themselves were wide and open, lush with long green grass. There were no fences to contain the Capall Sídhe; the steeds were not property and were free to come and go as they pleased. Wildflowers bloomed randomly and in great abundance, dotting the verdant meadow with pink, purple, red, and blue. Several Capall Sídhe grazed the field, each a different color, and each as majestic as the last.

Ellie approached Dean and Castiel from one side. She was a small thing, at least a foot shorter than Dean with skin the color of bark and dainty, delicate facial features. Her hair was black as a raven’s wing and hung in loose, wild curls to her waist, nearly covering the colorful dress—made of the very wildflowers that grew in the pasture—she wore. Unlike Castiel, Ellie had wings, sheer and luminescent blue, that stretched out behind her, flitting of their own accord. It was from this woman Dean had learned to never judge the fae based on their appearance or stature.

Though she was small, Ellie was as powerful as any minor member of the Seelie Court, and well-born to boot. She had a knack for taming the wildest of beasts, and even the most terrifying of them could not make her flinch. She was a dauntless, unyielding force of nature. As the Court’s Horsemaster, she was a valuable asset. Even more so as a close friend of both the king and his lover. 

“Mo Ardrí,” she greeted, bowing her head slightly in deference.

Castiel smiled broadly and waved a hand. “Please, dispense with such pleasantries, Ellie. We know each other far better than that, and it is only the three of us here.”

Ellie returned the smile, and her wings twitched happily. “Castiel, it has been far too long since you came to see me. Though, I suppose your duties keep you quite busy.” She turned to Dean with a twinkle in her deep brown eyes. “You, on the other hand, have no such excuse. I have missed both of you dearly.”

“My apologies, Horsemaster,” Dean said with a playful smile, bowing deeply and winking at her. “But you see, I am just a slave to the whim of my master. Where he goes, I’ve no choice but to follow.” He let the packs he carried fall to rest on the ground as he stood.

Castiel slapped the back of his hand lightly against Dean’s upper arm and said, “You know like any other member of the Court, you are free to go whenever you like.” His tone was light and teasing, and despite the peril they would be facing once they reached their destination, Dean couldn’t help but smile at the king. The playful gesture, the simplicity of the companionship they shared in that moment reminded Dean how he came to love Castiel in the first place. “Now, Ellie, we have missed you just as dearly. Unfortunately, we haven’t much time for socializing today.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “Your provisions are prepared, with an extra week’s worth of food. Eireamhón and Dearbháil will be round momentarily. They were not quite ready to stop grazing.”

“Very well.” Castiel nodded, smiling at the Horsemaster. “You have my word that we shall set aside a day when we return from Ifreann. The three of us can explore the forest and play childish games as we did when times were less troubled.”

“I should very much like that,” Ellie replied. Behind her, two Capall Sídhe approached. 

They were majestic creatures, similar to the horses of the human realm. One was the color of the night sky at its darkest, a black that in its depth seemed to shine with all the glowing light of the universe. Its mane and tail were long and flowing—and in the Capall’s darkness lie a strange sensation of comfort. Its companion was a tan color that reflected the early morning rays of sun like gold with a mane and tale of warm black that danced listlessly in the soft breeze. Their muscles rippled powerfully under their skin as they gracefully trotted over to the king and Cosantóir.

Dean through his arms around the neck of the black and tan Capall. “Dearbháil, it has been too long, seanchara. I’ve missed you.”

Her nose dipped so that her chin was against Dean’s back, as though she was returning the affectionate hug, and she whinnied softly. When he pulled away, Dearbháil’s eyes sparkled happily. Dean really was happy to see her, though the tightness in his groin reminded him that riding her, at least for this first day, would not be the pleasant experience he usually had. Dearbháil nuzzled his chest, huffing softly, and for a moment—and not for the first time—Dean wondered if she knew of his discomfort.

Castiel was smiling and stroking the dark fur of Eireamhón’s neck, speaking to him in much the same way Dean had greeted Dearbháil. Indeed, the four of them had known each other and been friends for many years, and had spent far too little time together recently.

Conversation faded as Dean and Castiel prepared their steeds—with permission from the Capall, and Ellie’s assistance—for the journey ahead. It wasn’t often they used saddles with the Capall, but for long voyages such as the one they were undertaking, it was necessary. The saddles were less for the comfort of the men riding, and more so they would have a way to properly carry their provisions without causing injury or discomfort to themselves or their steeds.

In all, it didn’t take long. The sun had barely risen fully above the horizon when Dean was mounting Dearbháil and waving a goodbye to Ellie. He and Castiel rode silently next to each other, and Dean’s greatest discomfort the sense of impending doom that lingered over him like a storm cloud. He stole glances at Castiel from the corner of his eye, but the king seemed perfectly content on the path he had chosen to take.

Things were going to get very complicated once they reached Ifreann. And not just for Castiel.

The Capall slowed as they approached the opening at the treeline that was most often considered the palace gate. Castiel looked over at Dean and their eyes met for a long moment. “Are you ready, grá mo chroí?” asked the faerie. 

“I would still advise against this,” Dean admitted. “Given that you’ve already elected to ignore my concerns, I fail to see the point in that.” He smiled uncomfortably, his lips pressed tightly together and the expression not reaching his eyes. Turning to look at the road ahead of them, Dean patted a hand against Dearbháil’s side and she began walking again, so that she and Dean moved ahead of the king.

Although the trees thinned once they passed through the palace gates, the surrounding forest was still dense with old ashes and oaks, alive with the noise of birds and other creatures that made their home in the forest. The silence that hung tangibly in the air between him and Castiel left entirely too much time for Dean to think.

What was he to do? He had long since given his heart to the faerie and forsaken the task he was sent to the Seelie Court for. But Castiel knew nothing of that. Dean had made certain. If Castiel knew the truth, he would invariably turn his back on Dean. If luck remained on his side, that would be all Castiel would do. At the worst, Dean could spend the rest of his existence being made to regret the day of his birth. 

As if he didn’t regret that enough already.

Despite the growing ache in his groin—no matter how graceful the Capall Sídhe might be, there was nothing to be done about the way Dean’s own weight pressed him into Dearbháil’s back—the day’s ride passed peacefully. Dean was unsurprised. The real dangers wouldn’t begin to appear until they’d crossed the line from the outer territories of the Seelie Kingdom. It wasn’t a secret that darkness—the heart-stopping, terrifying perilous kind—resided in nearly every direction from there.

He glanced over at Castiel, wondering how he had ever thought it would be possible to conceal his identity as king. Everything about the faerie exuded power, from the already determined set of his jaw to the way he sat—tall and straight—on the back of the Capall. Castiel’s presence alone was commanding. And when the sun began its descent below the horizon, the orange glow through the trees cast light and shadow across the king’s face so that he took on a nearly ethereal appearance.

“Are you enjoying the view?” Castiel asked, one corner of his mouth quirked up and his blue eyes sparkling playfully.

Dean was often caught staring, but how was he to help himself? “Very much. Though I would not be impartial to ending the day a bit earlier than we might normally do so,” he replied, adjusting himself as he spoke. The pain between his legs was becoming impossible to ignore, though Dean did his best not to show it. In reality, he wanted nothing more in that moment than to relieve the pressure.

Castiel just nodded, smiling wryly at Dean’s discomfort. “We can stop for the evening, and continue on when the sun rises again.”

They veered off the path toward a clearing large enough for the Capall to wonder a bit without leaving the men behind. When they dismounted, Castiel did as much unloading as Dean. Though it had been some time since they’d ventured outside the gates of the palace, Dean had not forgotten that Castiel was often like a different person when they were away from the throne that bound him to constant duty.

Out there, in the wild, Castiel could be entirely himself without any worry for how it might affect the perception of his subjects—not that he cared overly much what was thought of him, generally. But this was different. There was no need for a king on the dusty roads between the different realms of the Otherworld. When he traveled he was simply Castiel, and Dean was his equal. He was not above the tasks of packing or unpacking, of preparing a meal, or of cleaning up after them. Castiel relaxed in a way that he was never able to inside the walls of the place they called home.

Dean and Castiel were settling into their campsite as the Capall grazed on the other side of the clearing when night fell. Castiel waved a hand and lit the field up in the iridescent glow of faerie lights. Dean stared up at the floating, shining orbs as he ate, biting into the last fresh fruit he would taste in days. The rest of their provisions consisted of dried fruit and meat—which only Dean would partake in—and already he knew for the coming days he would miss the burst of juice in his mouth as he bit into a plum or apple.

“Cas,” Dean began, breaking the comfortable silence between them. “I know it’s important to ensure the truce remains intact, but why must it be you that goes?”

“I do not trust anyone else with a task so great,” Castiel answered simply. “When the treaty was enacted, it was between myself and Crowley, and I believe that it should remain as such.” He bit into his own fruit, pausing in his speech to chew. Dean resisted the temptation to lean over and lick at the juice that ran down Castiel’s chin. “Why are you so adamantly against my going to Ifreann, Dean? It’s not as if I’ve never been there, and you and I have certainly been in situations at least as perilous together.”

Dean shook his head and turned away, trying to hide his own blush. Castiel was not wrong. They had faced danger together many times, and they had always come out victorious on the other side. This was different. Very different. But Dean hesitated to tell Castiel why. “I have a bad feeling about this. My instincts tell me it is a mistake for you to step foot into the Dark Realm.”

Castiel’s fingers were under Dean’s chin suddenly, lifting and turning his face so that he was made to meet the king’s bright blue eyes. “I am not worried,” Castiel said confidently. “As long as I have you by my side, I am certain of my safety.”

Dean’s mood was only momentarily bolstered. Castiel would change his mind soon enough. There would be no avoiding it when he found out the truth. “I would never leave your side of my own will, Castiel. Nor would I let any harm befall you if I could help it.”

With his hand now resting on Dean’s cheek, Castiel pulled him in and pressed his lips against Dean’s. His breath was warm on Dean’s skin and his mouth was soft and gentle. Dean sighed, relaxing into the kiss. He pushed away all his thoughts about what was to come over the next weeks and leaned into his lover’s comforting touch. Wrapping his arms around Castiel’s waist, Dean drew him closer, prodding delicately at Castiel’s lips with his tongue until they were parted to grant him entrance.

Dean allowed himself to be lost in the heat of Castiel’s body against his, in the way their mouths slotted together perfectly, and in the wet slide of their tongues as they danced over each other. He let the sound of Castiel’s shuddering breath as he climbed into Dean’s lap and straddled him wash away any doubts he had about their future. And when Castiel rocked his hips and Dean felt the length of Castiel’s already hard cock against his, he simply stopped thinking completely, focusing only on the pleasure spiking through him and making him twitch and tremble.

Groaning, Dean rolled his hips up to meet Castiel’s in a slow rhythm. He gasped for air when he broke their kiss and rested his forehead against Castiel’s so all he could see was an ocean of blue. Belts were untied and leggings pushed down as far as they could get them without having to break the contact they both seemed desperate for. And then Dean was panting, moaning as Castiel firmly wrapped a hand around both their lengths and stroked them together. After the experience of the previous night and the day’s ride, the persistent touch was a heady concoction of pleasure and pain, and the sensation consumed Dean’s senses.

Castiel’s lips were moving, the deep, gravel of his voice was heavy with need in Dean’s ear, and Dean knew the words were whispered praises even if he was unable to pick them out individually at that very moment. All of Dean’s concentration was on sensation. He was so very close to his end that his entire being vibrated with it, but Dean didn’t want it to be over yet; he wanted Castiel’s hands on him always. Dean wanted every one of their moments together to be that good. 

One of his hands slid up to grip the hair on the back of Castiel’s head as Dean rutted into the tight grip of Castiel’s fist around both their cocks. Dean’s release struck him like a bolt of lightning, shattering him as he spilled over Castiel’s fingers and threw his head back to cry out his lover’s name. It must have momentarily released him from the constraints of reality, Dean realized. When he returned to the present, Castiel had already gasped out his own completion and was holding Dean against him, peppering his face and neck with soft kisses.

“Cas,” Dean said when he finally caught his breath again. “In ainm Dé, you’ll be the death of me one day. You and your magical touches.”

Castiel laughed and the sound of it vibrated through Dean’s chest. “What would be the point of magic if one couldn’t use it to make the best things in life even better?”

Dean hummed his agreement against the smooth skin of Castiel’s neck as he buried his head there, breathing in the spicy, woodsy scent of him. “We should rest and get an early start tomorrow. If we absolutely must pay a visit to the Unseelie Queen, I should like to get it over with as quickly as possible.”

His distaste for the queen was palpable and extended, in fact, far beyond the queen herself and to most of the dark fae. As much as any faerie could be mischievous, vengeful, or easily offended, the fae of the Unseelie Court were malicious. They tricked and preyed on even the most innocent of humans and fae alike, and that—among other things—lodged itself under Dean’s skin and refused to work its way out. He knew Castiel felt similarly; the king would never visit if he didn’t find it to be absolutely necessary.

Nodding, Castiel pressed a kiss to Dean’s cheekbone one last time standing fluidly, and removing every shred of clothing he wore. Dean followed suit, and they rolled the soiled clothes into small bundles, replacing them with clean ones from their packs. When that was done, Dean laid out their bedrolls. They were much thinner than the mattresses back home in the palace, but they were stuffed with the same fragrant pine needles and made from a combination of softened deerskin and spidersilk.

Dean butted them against each other so that he and Castiel would be able to share the space, as if they were still in their bed. Laying down on his side, he beckoned for Castiel to join him and then rested his head in the crook of the king’s shoulder. “Oíche mhaith, mo Ardrí.”

“Oíche mhaith, grá mo chroí.” Castiel wrapped an arm around Dean and they fell asleep under the floating faerie lights.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irish Translations  
_Cad é do ghnó anseo_\- What is your business here?  
_Is féidir leat dul isteach_\- You may enter  
_Déan féin a iompar_\- Behave yourself

The next days were monotonous at best, broken only the quiet conversation Dean made with Castiel. Although they had ventured beyond the limits of the palace before, Castiel still pointed out all the creatures and flowers, telling Dean about them as though he had never seen them before. Dean didn’t mind that at all. The enthusiasm the king had for all the inhabitants of the land he was charged with protecting was endearing. If Dean were honest, he simply enjoyed the sound of Castiel’s voice, particularly when it was laced with the childlike wonder it held as he spoke about the beauty that surrounded them.

They had passed out of the forest a day ago and now rode through verdant fields. The warm, light breeze made the tall grass sway rhythmically and wildflowers cropped up at random and as far as the eye could see. The sky was clear and bright blue, and the golden rays of the sun beat down on Dean’s back so that a thin sheen of sweat coated his skin. It was warm but not uncomfortable, like the days nearing the end of spring before the true heat of summer set in. The days were always like that within the confines of the Seelie Kingdom, and though he would never admit it out loud—lest Castiel think he was unappreciative of the loveliness around him—Dean sometimes found himself missing the chill of autumn.

The change was gradual as they crossed the unseen boundary into the Unseelie Kingdom. The vibrancy of the flowers faded from bright pinks, purples, and yellows into deep blues, reds, and blacks, and the high grass took on a gray tinge to its green. As they ventured further in, they approached something akin to the forest that contained the Seelie seat of power. But instead of tall, leafy trees providing bathed in glowing gold from the high sun, they were greeted with bare, misshaped trunks and limbs that seemed sinister, like at any moment one might reach out and pluck the heart from Dean’s chest.

The sky was no longer clear, but covered in gray clouds that only barely let the light of the sun filter through. The temperature had dropped greatly and Dean was glad for the light cloak he brought. Castiel, for his part, seemed unbothered by the change in weather. The bark of the trees that surrounded them was not any of the various shades of brown Dean had become used to, but instead was a dull gray that made them appear unwell. They were not, of course, diseased. That was simply the nature of the Unseelie Kingdom. The majority of the color came from the various deep red, orange, and brown leaves that littered the ground.

Unlike the lively forest of the Seelie Kingdom, there was no abundance of creatures to be seen. In fact, there were almost none, save for the ravens that occasionally squawked from ominously twisting branches high above them. Everything about the place made Dean’s skin crawl. They would have to make it to the Queen’s Court before they stopped to rest for the evening. It was far too dangerous to bed down in the wild lands surrounding them for a night.

“I do not care for this place, Dean,” Castiel announced. “It feels… wrong for me to be here.”

Dean looked over at him with a blank face. “Perhaps. But you are, as ever, correct in thinking it would be best to form an alliance with Queen Charlotte now. If this does come to a war with the Fomóraigh, we will be best able to beat them back with the assistance of her forces.”

Their arrival at the grounds of the palace where the Unseelie Court was held was sudden, almost as if it had popped up out of the soft dirt beneath the hooves of the Capall. If Dean hadn’t already known what he was looking for, he would have thought they had stumbled upon the ruins of some old castle like the ones in the human realm. Crumbling stone walls jutted up toward the sky, covered in the uncontrolled growth of dark, thorned vines. There was no apparent entrance because nothing seemed connected to the naked eye. On one side, there was the worn face of what looked like it had once been a high tower, but was now a broken remnant. There was no ceiling or roof, nothing to announce the presence of the Unseelie Court within.

The Capall nickered, shaking their heads and huffing restlessly into the otherwise eerily silent air. Even the sound of their hooves on the ground was deadened, giving the impression that they’d ridden into some ghostly afterlife from which there was no escape. Dean took a slow, deep breath of the stale air and straightened his back, refusing to allow the discomfort the place made him feel show in his posture or on his face.

They picked past the disconnected walls and further into the grounds until they came upon what they were looking for, an equally dismal stone staircase leading down into the earth. It was unlit and twisted around into darkness after the first few steps. Sharing a look of foreboding, Dean and Castiel dismounted, whispering words of comfort to their uncomfortable steeds. Dean shouldered both his pack and Castiel’s and began the descent into the home of the Unseelie Queen.

The staircase was too cramped for them to walk side-by-side so Dean took the lead, letting his sure feet carry him downward in what felt like an unending spiral. The intent of the unlit, interminable steps was to drive mad any human that had the misfortune to stumble into Charlotte’s realm. Dean could see how it might work on the unprepared, but this was not his first time traveling down those steps.

Eventually, they reached a door. It was small and old. The sickly green of oxidation covered the copper hinges and handle that were fitted onto a mostly solid plank of rotting wood. The smell of it permeated the air and turned Dean’s stomach as he reached to turn the knob and let the door swing open. The space beyond was equally gloomy but bathed in the frail gray glow of a dull imitation of faerie lights like the ones Castiel often created. The stone walls of the wide entrance hall were almost entirely unadorned, save for the occasional painting depicting acts so depraved that only the Unseelie Fae would display them so openly.

Dean examined the illustrations with a curious eye. Fae, in general, were not prudish in the slightest—something that had taken Dean a very long time to come to terms with, but he’d grown accustomed to it and even begun to enjoy it. But even the wildest nights that Dean and Castiel had spent together paled in comparison to the lewd acts rendered in the art on the walls of Charlotte’s palace. It would be dishonest to say that Dean didn’t have at least an academic curiosity about them.

At the end of the entrance hall stood a similar rotting door with identical oxidized copper fixtures. The difference was that this one was guarded. The guard was as tall as Dean, but beyond that it was impossible to know what they looked like. They were covered from head to toe in armor, though it wasn’t the sort of armor one might expect to see on a knight. It appeared to be made entirely from the same thick, thorned vines that wrapped around the ruined walls above ground. 

The guard lifted a hand, stopping Dean and Castiel several feet away from the door. “Cad é do ghnó anseo?” they asked, voice deep and authoritative.

“We seek audience with Queen Charlotte,” Dean replied. 

“And you are?”

Dean rolled his eyes. They must know the king of the Seelie Court, if they didn’t recognize Dean.

“I am Castiel. It is most important that Charlotte hear the news I bring.” A long, tense moment of silence passed between them, and Dean thought the guard would turn them away.

“Is féidir leat dul isteach,” they said instead, opening the door allowing Dean and Castiel to pass through.

The throne room was nearly empty, but clearly only recently so. There were discarded plates and goblets littering the expansive floor. Some of them still held food and wine. There were only three people left in the room besides Castiel and Dean.

The Queen perched on her throne casually, one leg hanging in front of it and the other foot resting on the arm of the chair. It was similar to Castiel’s throne only in the fact that it was grown from the nature around it. Twisted, mangled roots wrapped around each other to form it, and Dean couldn’t help but think there was no way that sitting on it could be comfortable, but Charlie seemed content enough. Perhaps she couldn’t feel the knotted, bulbous roots through the armor she wore.

It covered her legs from the clawed feet all the way to the upper thigh, like tall, tight, intricately designed boots. Dark, sparkling gems were set into the uppermost point of the greaves, where they were disconnected from the armor that covered Charlie’s pelvis and chest. From her hips hung twin short swords, their sheaths decorated in the same fashion as the rest of the armor. Only a thin stripe of black fabric could be seen in the space where the plackart was split over her stomach and chest. The pauldrons connected in the middle, just at her sternum with a gem matching those on the greaves and an intricate pattern that could almost be mistaken for a face.

The only exposed skin was that of her arms and face. It was pale like moonlight, and marred with the leftovers of the battles the Unseelie Queen had faced. A long black cloak hung from her shoulders, the hood pulled back to expose the short, dark red hair underneath a crown of black, jagged thorns. She turned toward them with a lazy smirk.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Castiel?” she asked. The boredom in her tone was almost tangible. She pulled on a thick chain that ran from the base of her throne, through her hand and down to an equally thick collar. The girl in the collar was wide-eyed and beautiful, with long dark curls hanging loose down her back. She wore a white dress, so thin that it hardly left anything to the imagination, and her slightly pointed ears peeked out between locks of her hair. She crawled slowly toward the throne, clearly enthralled by the queen, and came to rest at Charlie’s foot, draping herself over the leg that hung in front of the chair.

The whole scene was sensual in the most frighteningly dark way. Dean found it difficult to look away, but he managed eventually. There was a third person in the room; he knew it. But his eyes found no one else there. He found it disconcerting. Instead of continuing to search for this third person, Dean turned toward Castiel.

The Seelie king was an odd juxtaposition of light in the surrounding darkness. Nothing about the dull, dismal palace could dampen his vibrant radiance. Castiel shone like the sun in the middle of a rainstorm standing in the throne room, and Dean couldn’t deny his beauty—not that he would ever try. 

“I have come to seek accords between our kingdoms, Charlotte,” Castiel replied. This seemed to spark Charlie’s interest and she shoved her lover—pet?—away and leaned forward, planting both armored feet on the floor in front of her throne as she motioned for Castiel to continue. “The Dark Realm has become problematic. We are currently on our way to attempt a diplomatic solution, however if that fails there will likely be war.”

Charlie laughed derisively. “What about that is a problem of mine?” The faerie at her feet tried to lean over her again, but Charlie pushed her away. “Déan féin a iompar, Gilda.” 

Castiel took a step toward the queen. “If the Dark Realm starts a war, it will not end with the Seelie kingdom. Surely you know that.”

“Crowley would not dare attack me,” Charlie stated matter-of-factly, leaning back against her throne and crossing her legs. “He is not nearly so stupid. And if he is, I shall remind him of the bite of my blades.”

Dean watched the conversation silently, observing the queen’s reactions. She spoke with confidence, but the fire in her eyes faltered. Her bravado was false; she was afraid of the possibility of such a war. But that would not be enough for her to agree to an alliance.

“Charlie,” Castiel said softly, his tone intimate in a calculated way meant to remind her that they had been friends once. “I believe it would be in the best interests of both our kingdoms for us to agree to face this threat together.”

Charlie shook her head and tutted condescendingly. “Castiel, I don’t believe you have any idea what would be in the best interest of myself or my people.” She stared at him for a moment, brown drawn together in contemplation. “You and your companion may stay for the night, but you will leave my home at first light. There will be no accords between us, and you will not return to my kingdom again.” She waved a dismissive hand and turned away from them, returning to lazily lounging on her throne as the guard that had let them in returned to guide them further into the palace.

They followed silently until they reached a room that Dean supposed they were expected to spend the night in. Everything about the little chamber looked hard and uncomfortable, including the stone slab that passed for a bed. Castiel sighed next to him, and Dean couldn’t help but believe they were having the same thought. 

It was going to be a long, restless evening.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irish Translations  
_Tá a fhios agam go bhfuil tú ann._\- I know you’re there.  
_gan a bheith i bhfolach níos mó_\- no more hiding  
_Spiaire_\- spy  
_An bhfuil tú ceart go leor_\- are you alright?  
_lig dom grá duit_\- let me love you  
_Tá rud éigin á chur i bhfolach agat_\- You are hiding something  
_tá a fhios agam_\- I know

Dean would have been happier to leave the Unseelie Kingdom if they were heading back in the direction they came from. As it was, each step closer to the wetlands of the Dark Realm made him more uneasy. His heart grew heavier and dread pooled in his gut. It did not help that someone was most definitely following them.

Three days had passed since they departed from Charlie’s palace, and the landscape was starting to turn from the dull gray of the Unseelie Kingdom to the rich, dark blues and greens of the Dark Realm. The air was heavier, more humid, and the moisture collected on Dean’s skin like sweat, building at his hairline until rivulets dripped down the sides of his face. The twisted trees were thinning, providing less and less cover from the increasingly hot sun. Patting the side of Dearbháil’s neck, Dean brought her to a halt and turned back.

“Tá a fhios agam go bhfuil tú ann,” he said into a forest that appeared empty. But Dean knew better, and had since they left the castle. A spy followed them. There had been flashes of movement on the edge of his vision, quiet noise that was out of place in the trees, and the sensation of eyes on his skin for days. “Show yourself, spiaire.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at Dean as the infiltrator stepped out from behind a thick tree. He was tall—taller than Dean—and unnaturally thin, but his body was clearly powerful. His skin was so pale that he could have been mistaken for a corpse were it not for his glowing blue eyes. They were captivating, framed by long lashes and lined with dark kohl. There was a crescent of protruding bone on one side of his face, the bottom curving to a sharp point across his high cheekbone and the top curve splitting into three and coming down his forehead. It was painted metallic black in a pattern that reminded Dean of scales and made it look almost like a reptilian claw. The spy’s short ears were pierced many times, from the lobes all the way to the tips of the sharp points, which were nearly hidden by the curls of the long black hair that hung loose over his shoulders. His mouth seemed out of place, lips just a bit too full for the gaunt, angular face they were set on. He wore all black, leather coming over his shoulders and meeting at the waist to form a V, and tight leggings that covered him to the ankle above bare feet. 

“Who are you?” Dean asked, a hand resting on the pommel of his blade. The dark faerie’s presence set his skin crawling. He would strike if necessary, but it was his sincere hope it wouldn’t come to that. This spy, even without apparent weapons or armor, would be a formidable foe.

The spy smiled wickedly, exposing a set of viciously pointed teeth. “I am known by many names,” he replied, voice strong and deep. It vibrated through Dean’s entire being, leaving the impression that the man could end his life with a single word if he wished it. “You may call me Michael.”

“You were in Charlotte’s throne room.” Dean dismounted, approaching Michael cautiously.

“Of course. I am the queen’s Master of Spies.”

“Why are you following us?” Castiel interjected, clearly unperturbed by the potential threat the spy posed to him. “Did Charlotte send you?”

Michael laughed and the sound of it was somehow haunting and beautiful all at once. “No, of course not. She doesn’t know I’m here.” He paused, flexing long fingers and then crossing his arms over his chest. “Several moons ago I sent spies into Ifreann. They seem to have completely disappeared and it is not like them to go so long with no contact. Something is wrong and I intend to find out what it is.”

Dean glanced over at Castiel, a silent question in his raised eyebrows. Castiel eyed Michael for a moment longer, then shrugged almost imperceptibly and adjusted his position astride Eireamhón. Dean turned to his own Capall and she huffed and tossed her mane in silent agreement. “Perhaps instead of your surreptitious pursuit—” Dean said, looking back at Michael. “—you could join us. Dearbháil will bear you to the Dark Realm with us and then, if you wish it, we can go our separate ways.”

“Why would you offer an alliance, even one so short, to me?” Michael raised a thin brow and his eyes flicked back and forth between Dean and Castiel. “It’s clear that I make you uncomfortable.”

“You do,” Dean agreed with a nod. “It is your nature. However, I am not one to judge solely on the sort of creature you were born as. I prefer to make decisions about people based on the things they are able to control.” It was true, of course, though not necessarily the entire truth, and like any accomplished spy, Michael looked as though he knew Dean was withholding some key piece of information. There was no way for Michael to know that what Dean was hiding had little to do with the mission itself. “Will you join us?”

“Very well,” he agreed with a graceful, acquiescing tilt of his head. When he approached, Michael stopped in front of Dearbháil and let her sniff at his hands and face. She nickered and nuzzled against him, and his lips tugged up into a small smile as he pet her neck. “You are a lovely creature. Thank you for offering to carry me to my destination,” Michael muttered under his breath, mounting the Capall in a single, swift movement.

Dean nodded and turned toward Castiel, reaching up with one hand so the faerie could help him mount Eireamhón. The Capall was more than strong enough to carry them both, and Dean was grateful for the opportunity to be so close to Castiel. He couldn’t help but feel that after they arrived at their destination—once the truth was out—Dean would never feel the warmth of Castiel’s body pressed against him like this again. Dean breathed the sweet, flowered scent of the king deeply, burying his nose in the black curls at the nape of his neck.

Castiel’s low chuckle vibrated through Dean’s chest as he wrapped his arms around Castiel’s waist. “An bhfuil tú ceart go leor, gra mo chrói?” Castiel asked, concern tinging his low voice as he softly caressed Dean’s forearm.

Dean nodded against Castiel’s back. He was running out of time but he still had not found the words to tell Castiel. And now, with Michael joining their party, it would be even more difficult to reveal the truth. It would be much easier if Dean were less of a coward, but nothing would quell the fear of losing Castiel. Dean also found the way Michael looked at him as if he knew did not make things easier. The Unseelie Spymaster was far too perceptive for Dean’s liking.

“Shall we go?” Castiel asked no one in particular as he urged his steed forward. They travelled in silence as the midday sun started on its path down to the horizon. There were almost no trees in sight by the time they stopped, and the ground was soft beneath the hooves of the Capall. They were well into the wetlands of the Dark Realm, and from there until they reached the capital city of Ifreann, the journey would be at least twice as perilous.

Already, they were picking their way over the most solid parts of the waterlogged peat that made paths, both thick and thin, between pools of brackish water. Some were too shallow to support any life beyond the blue-green algae that accumulated on their surfaces. Others were wide and deep, ripples indicating that there was movement beneath the surface. Occasionally, Dean swore he could see the curious eyes of aquatic Fomóraigh peeking out of the water, peering at him, Castiel, and Michael as they passed. They never left their pools—never exposed more than their eyes and sometimes the tops of their scaled or slimy heads—and Dean wasn’t entirely certainly Castiel even noticed their presence.

The Dark Realm was, by far, the most expansive of the kingdoms of the Otherworld. Not because there were more Fomóraigh than Seelie or Unseelie fae, but simply because demonkind was much more varied. The Seelie kingdom was very similar in its entirety—from border to border, it was eternally spring verging into summer. Every species of fae that lived within those confines was content and capable of living in that climate. The Unseelie fae were much the same within their own kingdom.

The Fomóraigh were different. They were far too varied to contain themselves to a single ecosystem. The Dark Realm consisted of the wetlands through which Dean, Castiel, and Michael were currently travelling, mountainous areas, deserts, frozen tundras and rainforests. It could, in fact, have been an entire world unto itself. Ifreann was the only place where Fomóraigh from all parts of the Dark Realm could congregate. Magic was woven into its foundations so that no matter where a Fomórach hailed from, they carried with them an invisible, intangible, self-contained environment that allowed them to exist outside of their home. There were, of course, some that could live in any environment. Those individuals were often recruited as soldiers or spies.

“This place smells horrid,” Michael said, his nose twitching. Of the three of them, he seemed the most out of place and uncomfortable, which Dean found quite entertaining.

Castiel, as always, somehow managed to appear as though he belonged no matter where he was. He took everything in stride, generally speaking, and it was nearly impossible to make him uneasy or awkward. It simply was not in Castiel’s nature to be so. Dean was similarly unperturbed by their surroundings, though his reasons might have been slightly different.

“It always smells like this,” Dean mumbled under his breath, the smell of half-rotten vegetation far more familiar to him than the others. He didn’t realize he’d said it loud enough for anyone to hear until he saw Castiel’s raised eyebrows. It was, perhaps, a bit of information he should have kept to himself as Dean had no reason to be familiar with the Dark Realm, as far as Castiel knew, but Dean neither retracted his statement or offered any further explanation. “We should near the end of the wetlands by nightfall. It’s another day’s journey to Ifreann after that.”

They fell back into silence then, and the way Michael watched him made Dean itch. How long would it be before Crowley received word that they had crossed into the Dark Realm? How long until he sent someone after them? Dean very much doubted they would make it to the city unscathed. The closer they got, the more he doubted that he would make it to the city at all. Even now it was becoming more difficult to cling to the hope that he would see the Seelie kingdom again. 

There was a perceptible shift in Dean’s mood as the land beneath their feet began to dry out. Castiel seemed to notice and reached back to rest a hand on Dean’s thigh. It was intended to be a comfort, he was sure, but it did little to dissuade Dean’s dark mood. Every step closer to their destination made him wish that much more that they’d never left the castle. Michael, for his part, seemed to sense that something wasn’t quite right but kept his thoughts to himself, though he watched Dean with carefully observant eyes.

When they stopped for the night, they made camp beneath a single tree—the only one in sight for miles—and Michael wandered off, leaving Dean and Castiel on their own. Dean didn’t waste the opportunity; he pulled Castiel into a long, slow kiss, pressing his back against the trunk of the tree as he straddled him.

“Dean,” Castiel said, pushing against Dean’s chest so that they could look each other in the eye. “Tell me what is wrong, my love. There is something darkening your eyes, and I cannot help you be rid of it if you are unwilling to share what it is.”

This was it; Dean’s opportunity to tell him, to come clean. But fear gripped his heart as he gazed into concerned blue eyes. “It’s nothing, Castiel.” He caressed Cas’s cheek with his thumb, trying to bury the guilt clutching tightly at his heart. “Mo Ardrí, I need you. Lig dom grá duit.”

Castiel pulled Dean down against him, their lips and tongues meeting in soft desperation. Dean needed to feel Castiel against him, inside him, all round him. Tomorrow they would ride into Ifreann and this might be the last time Dean could be with Castiel like this; it might be the last time he could show Castiel how much he loved him. One way or another, Dean was certain that tomorrow would be the end for him. Part of him wished for that end to be his death. It would be so much easier that way.

Dean did his best to push those dark thoughts from his mind and lose himself in the sensation of Castiel’s hands roaming his back, massaging the muscles there as they rutted against each other, still fully clothed. Everything about Castiel was perfect. The deep blue of his eyes that offered to drown Dean with every gaze; the way he always knew exactly what Dean needed to hear at any given time; the way his body was both hard and yielding against Dean’s. Taking his time, Dean drank in every detail of Castiel as they disrobed each other. 

Words were unnecessary between them; everything was a heady mix of pleasure, desperation, and unbridled need. Dean’s body ached and burned for Castiel as he slowly sank down onto him with a deep groan that vibrated through the air between them, mingling with the noises Castiel made as he clutched at Dean. They were one, hands roaming across sweat-dampened skin, fingers tangling in wild hair as their bodies rocked together. The air around them filled with sighs and groans and the heavy combined scent of them.

Dean let the world around him fade from existence until there was nothing but Castiel. He was absorbed, consumed, intoxicated; taken apart and put together again at his very core; relentlessly, hopelessly lost in everything that was Castiel. Dean wanted every single moment of the rest of his near eternal life to be exactly like this one. But like this moment of slow ecstatic drowning in the blue seas of Castiel’s eyes and the rolling waves of their passion, it couldn’t last forever. Moments passed as their lips and tongues danced together desperately through their releases, a heavy fog of glowing pleasure settling over Dean as he remained wrapped in Castiel’s arms and pressed against the firmness of his chest.

As his breaths slowed and became even once again, the dark promise of Ifreann loomed and choked his happiness. Dean fought back tears as he buried his face against Castiel’s neck, trying not to let the guilt of his own deceptions take him over. “I love you, Castiel. Forever and for always, no matter what may befall us.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, his voice hardly more than a concerned whisper. “I feel the same. I wish you would share with me whatever it is that has you feeling this way so that I could assuage your fears.”

Dean simply held Castiel more tightly, feeling like a small, frightened child, and shook his head. “Only know that I mean every word of it, Castiel. I love you and I am yours.”

“Are you quite finished?” Michael asked from somewhere behind Dean. “I had intended to eat, but now I believe I may vomit instead.” His voice was crossed somewhere between genuinely displeased and teasing, and despite the content of his words, it served to sever the palpable tension.

Castiel chuckled, a low rumbling vibration in his chest, and waved a hand. As if they hadn’t desperately torn away their clothes, Dean now sat—entirely clean and covered—beside Castiel rather than in his lap. “Come then,” he invited Michael. “Let us dine before the sun dips entirely below the horizon.”

Michael’s toothy grin became less discomforting each time Dean encountered it. Of the three men, Michael was the only one consuming meat—dry and salted for the sake of travel. Dean wished that he could have a bite of it as well, but for Castiel’s sake, he did not.

“Will we part ways once we reach Ifreann tomorrow?” Dean asked of Michael instead.

The dark faerie’s countenance became thoughtful as he tore another chunk of dried meat off with his sharp teeth. “If you seek audience with the king, it may be better for me to stay with you. My spies, should they still live, would likely be somewhere interspersed within the court.”

Dean simply nodded. Though he had, at first, been quite ill at ease in Michael’s presence, the Unseelie Spymaster appeared to be a decent sort of faerie. Should Dean survive this trip into the capital, Michael might prove a powerful and reliable ally to the Seelie Kingdom. Those were in sorely short supply these days. Still, the way he looked at Dean like he knew… Well, Dean supposed it didn’t matter much at this point in their journey. If he were lucky, one more day would pass before Castiel knew as well.

“We should rest for the evening,” Castiel suggested quietly. His tone was different, subdued. Dean knew immediately that he was still worried and was unable to meet his eye as he forced a smile and nodded his agreement. Michael climbed up into the tree, offering to keep watch for some hours as he did not require sleep in the same way or amount that Dean and Castiel did.

Dean lay with Castiel in the soft earth and stared, unable to sleep, up at the sky. He missed the view from the treetop canopy of the palace. The sky here was dull and black, a seemingly boundless void. Like the Dark Realm itself, the blackness of the sky swallowed everything within, leaving no chance for any light to exist within it, and little chance of escape.

Castiel slept soundly, silently, beside him, curled against him. His features soft and relaxed in repose. Dean stared, taking in each curve and angle of the faerie’s face as best he could in the pitch darkness. He wanted to commit it to memory, the way Castiel looked when the gravity of being responsible for any entire nation didn’t turn his beautiful, expressive face into a visage of stern impassivity. Dean might never have the opportunity to see him in this way again; he only wished there were more light to see it by.

Eventually, he rose from his resting place, wandering over to climb the tree. Michael was nearly at the top of it, on a branch that should have been far too thin and frail to hold the weight of an entire man. Dean settled onto a much thicker branch a little ways below him.

“You should be asleep,” Michael observed from his perch. He neither moved nor looked down as he spoke.

Dean grimaced. “I find that sleep evades me in moments as dark as these.” He couldn’t help but wonder if Michael knew the double meaning of his words as he stared ahead into the inky night.

“Tá rud éigin á chur i bhfolach agat.” The statement only served to confirm Dean’s fears that Michael knew far more than he let on. It was not unexpected, he supposed. Michael was a spy, after all, and a good one if he was the master of all the Unseelie infiltrators. 

“And if I am?” Dean asked softly, unable to hide the sadness in his voice.

“Perhaps it is none of my concern,” Michael replied, equally quiet. “But whatever your secret is, you should tell him before he finds out some other way.”

Dean wished he was less of a coward, less of a fraud, because he knew Michael was right. And when Castiel found out, he would be devastated at the betrayal. “Tá a fhios agam. I cannot bring myself to do it.”

There was a long moment of silence, and Dean wondered if the conversation had ended. “You underestimate the Seelie King, Dean. His love for you is deeply ingrained. One does not come across a love like that often.”

It almost sounded as though he spoke from experience, but if the words were intended as a comfort, they missed their mark. Dean only felt worse, but found he could no longer stand to hide in the branches of a tree and stare out into a landscape that he could not see. “I think I shall try for sleep again,” he said as he climbed down slowly. Michael made no reply and soon enough, Dean was laying himself down on the ground again, wrapping his arms around Castiel, closing his eyes in search of rest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irish Translations  
_maidin mhaith_\- good morning  
_Feicfidh an rí tú_\- The king will see you  
_Níl aon áit agat i mo ríocht_\- You have no place in my kingdom  
_an bhfuil sé seo fíor_\- Is this true

Sleep must have come to him eventually, though Dean wasn’t sure how, because when the sun began to rise, its light glowed beyond his closed lids and roused him. Castiel had already risen, and tossed Dean some dried fruit or another when he approached, making him sorely wish he’d secretly asked Michael for a strip of his cured meat the previous night. 

“Maidin Mhaith,” Dean said, pressing a soft kiss to Castiel’s lips. He would take every advantage today, seek every incidental brush of fingers. And he would try his absolute hardest to ensure that Castiel remain unaware of the Dean’s ever-fouling mood. Castiel, of course, seemed to know that something wasn’t quite right. It didn’t matter; they both pretended anyway.

Michael was, as usual, mostly silent, simply watching as Dean mounted Eireamhón behind Castiel, and then mounting Dearbháil before they set off toward the dense forest that lay across the land between them and Ifreann. It was, admittedly, a beautiful forest in its own way, nothing at all similar to the woods of the Seelie Kingdom. It was much more alive than the seemingly cursed trees in the realm of the Unseelie. The trip was tediously uneventful, though Dean had really expected no less. The Fomóraigh of the forests were notoriously shy, only occasionally identifiable by sets—pairs, trios, sometimes more—of glowing yellow eyes peeking from the darkness of hollows in the trees.

Their timidity made them relatively harmless, and the trio of travelers passed silently through the woods and came out unscathed into the grassy plain on the other side. There was a strange chill in the air, a tingling in Dean’s skin that raised gooseflesh and it caused great disquiet within him. The way Michael’s unadorned eyebrow rose and Castiel’s shifting in his place in front of Dean indicated that they felt it as well. 

“Unseasonably cold,” Castiel observed aloud, almost casually. Dean could hear the anxious undercurrent in his tone. Something was certainly wrong, though none of them could seem to put a finger on exactly what it was as they agreed with Castiel.

Before long, they were approaching the gates of Ifreann, if they could be called such a thing. There was no physical manifestation of a boundary; it was more of a spectral sense that one was about to cross an invisible barrier into a new place. Of course, they would have known they approached the city anyway, as buildings cropped up, seemingly from nowhere, and the towering obsidian spires of the home of the Fomóraigh Court rose before them like foreboding portents of unimaginable doom. 

As they passed through the mystic border of the city, Dean’s skin prickled further, though there was no telling whether it was due to the strange wrongness he had been feeling since they trotted out of the forest, or if it was simply the magic of the barrier itself. It certainly wasn’t the only oddity. One expected a bustle of noisy activity in a city such as Ifreann, but the streets were nearly deserted. Those who remained on the street were somehow strange. For one, they were ominously quiet. 

It seemed nearly impossible to look anyone in the eye. The Fomóraigh they passed kept their gazes turned away from the outsiders and Dean could swear he saw shadows or flashes of something else—who even knew what—near the outside of his field of vision. But when he turned to look there was nothing. It certainly wasn’t unheard of. After all, there were incorporeal Fomóraigh, shades and the like. But this felt different. The unseasonable cold had only become worse when they entered the city. So much so that even Michael had produced a coat to shield himself against it.

The appearance of the fomóraigh they passed was varied. There were impossibly tall, ink-skinned folk with glowing eyes and clawed hands; smaller, stockier beings that appeared to be nothing more than gray stones held together by fire instead of muscle; more that appeared human, or at least nearly human. There was something similar in all of their faces, though, as if they were constantly shifting, being ever-so-slightly rearranged so that they would still be recognizably themselves but also not themselves.

Even more of an uneasy surprise was the lack of a guard at the passageway leading into the shining obsidian palace. The Capall tossed their manes and refused to go any further, clearly too far into the uncomfortable atmosphere that seemed to have overtaken everything. Dean, Castiel, and Michael exchanged looks of concern and dismounted, taking their packs and carrying them on their backs as they entered the entrance hall.

The hall itself was wide and towered above them. The king of the Dark Realm had a penchant for grand dramatics, even in the architecture, and he had been king for quite long enough to have a hand in the design of the palace. Given that fact, it was surprisingly plain. Last Dean had seen it, the walls of the entrance hall had been covered with intricate tapestries and paintings, many of the king himself, and a deep red carpet had led all the way from the doors into the throne room. Much more so than Dean remembered. He couldn’t seem to shake the sense of perversion that permeated the castle. What in the Otherworld was going on?

Dean stopped Castiel from climbing the stairs leading to the throne room first, unwilling to let him simply walk into harm’s way. It seemed Michael agreed as he stepped in front of Castiel as well, his keen eyes taking in every detail around him as he and Dean climbed the stairs. Dean’s hand rested on the pommel of the sword at his hip, ready to draw it against any enemy that chose to present a threat to Castiel. The steps were many, likely another sign of the king’s handiwork. It was very much like Crowley to make his subjects work that much harder to approach him. He wasn’t known for his love of commoners.

When they finally reached the top, Dean was greeted by a guard armored from head to toe. The armor was so well fitted that it was impossible to tell if it was, in fact, a suit, or it was simply this particular Fomórach’s skin. “We seek diplomatic audience with the king,” Dean informed the guard upon being blocked from entrance. A long, tense moment passed, and Dean was almost certain they would be turned away.

“Feicfidh an rí tú,” the guard said, finally, stepping out of their way.

With a firm hand, Dean prevented Castiel from taking the lead again, and they exchanged a look, carrying on a silent argument about which of them should enter the throne room first, until Michael made the squabble moot by passing through the doorway himself, shaking his head. Dean cursed under his breath and quickly followed the spy. 

The throne room was crowded compared to the rest of the places they’d seen on their way in. Upon the raised dais in the center were seven Fomóraigh, each appearing to be from a different part of the Dark Realm. Dean knew of some by name. Azazel, a hulking, bark-skinned forest dweller with three pairs of glowing, yellow eyes. Asmodeus, who looked almost entirely human in stark white shirt and leggings, except for his eyes—though he only had the usual two—which also glowed yellow. Dagon was next, though it was difficult to see her face behind the long, black hair that reminded Dean of seaweed. Ramiel was dragonesque in his appearance, skin covered in glittering red scales and fingers that came to long talons. Lillith was small and ethereal with smooth, pale skin and cloudy white eyes. Cain appeared completely human, thick hair hanging down over one side of his face, only partially covering a raised scar and piercing blue eyes.

The seventh Fomórach was not, as they had expected, Crowley. It was a woman, half of her body covered in rusted plate armor that looked as though she may have stolen it from some other warrior. The other half of her armor was deep red, deeper than the color of blood, and spiked at each covered joint. Her eyes were jet black and long red hair tumbled over her shoulders, falling down to her thin waist. On her head was a tall, spiked obsidian crown which indicated that she was, in fact, the king of the Dark Realm. She sat on the throne, a thing that appeared to have been built from twisted armor and swords, but that wasn’t what caught Dean’s eye.

Her booted feet rested on the back of a man on his hands and knees in front of the throne. He looked a bit different, as though he’d been roughened and certainly debased, but the glowing red eyes alone would have been enough to find him recognizable. It was Crowley. The man they had all expected to occupy the throne was, instead, quite literally beneath the heel of a wickedly smiling usurper who none of them knew.

“What brings such a… varied group of adventurers to my doorstep?” the woman asked. Her voice sent chills down Dean’s spine; it was like ice. 

Castiel stepped forward, clearing his throat and bowing his head only slightly in greeting, but certainly not deference. “My apologies, but I do not know your name. We were expecting an audience with the, apparently, former king.” It was the first time in half a century that Dean had seen Castiel truly ill-at-ease. Whoever this woman was, she had taken the throne by force, and Crowley was no frail, weak thing. She must be quite powerful to not only steal his kingship, but humiliate him such as she was without reproach.

“The former king was unworthy of this throne,” she replied, kicking Crowley roughly in the ribs and drawing a cry from him. “Welcome to the new order of the Dark Realm. I am Abaddon. And you are Castiel, king of the Seelie court. Níl aon áit agat i mo ríocht, faerie.”

Castiel’s jaw clenched and anger flashed in his eyes, but he kept a civil tongue. They were far outnumbered and with no idea of the capabilities of this false king. “I have come to discuss a breach of the treaty between your people and mine, and to attempt to reach a diplomatic resolution in the interests of preventing war among the kingdoms of the Otherworld.”

Abaddon laughed. It was a piercing, terrifying sound that made Dean’s fingers tighten around the hilt of his blade. He wasn’t the only one affected by it. Michael’s eyes glowed more brightly than Dean had ever seen them and were narrowed, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Castiel’s shoulders were drawn up and tense, but his face was entirely impassive as Abaddon kicked Crowley again, knocking him over onto his side with a groan, and stood. She struck an imposing figure before them, somehow appearing to take up much more space than a woman of her size was meant to.

“Why should I want your diplomacy?” she spat, stepping toward them over Crowley’s prone form. Dean fought the urge to take a step back, and placed himself protectively between her and Castiel. Abaddon laughed again, and Dean’s heart pounded viciously in his chest as she approached him. He swallowed harshly as she used two long-nailed fingers to tilt his head up and force him to meet her gaze. “You bring this traitor into my castle and expect me to listen to you?”

Dean jerked his head away from Abaddon and glanced over at Castiel. His head was tilted to one side, brow furrowed in confusion, and lips parted as if he was about to speak. Michael stood stock still on the king’s other side, eyes now turned to Dean, brow raised at this new information. But he did not appear surprised, not really.

Abaddon gasped in feigned surprise, eyes widening as she moved to stand in front of Castiel. “Oh, you poor, senseless imbecile. You had no idea, did you?” A cruel smirk split her lips, exposing long, pointed, predatory teeth. “Your consort is nothing more than one of our simple spies, my darling king.” 

Castiel’s eyes darted back and forth between Abaddon and Dean, confusion, anger, and pain a swirling storm in their depths. “Dean, an bhfuil sé seo fíor?” His voice was steady, dangerously calm. 

“Of course, its true,” Abaddon replied before Dean had the chance to answer. She reached over and patted Dean’s cheek condescendingly. “Look at his guilty countenance, Castiel. You see, Crowley sent him to spy on you. But the idiot fell in love and never reported back to the court.”

Dean wanted nothing more than Abaddon’s head rolling across the floor, lopped off by his own blade. She turned away and started walking back toward the throne. Seating herself in it with a flourish, she smiled once more and said, “If you turn the traitor over to me for execution, I will consider your extension of diplomacy.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irish Translations  
_Tá mo chinneadh déanta agam_\- I have made my decision  
_do thábhacht_\- your eminence  
_go fírinneach, is féidir liom_\- truly, I do  
_Fealltóir_\- traitor  
_Is amadán thú_\- you are a fool  
_Caithfidh tú_\- you have to  
_beidh tú i do chónaí leis an méid atá déanta agat_\- you will live with what you have done  
_Céad bliain_\- one hundred years

“Cas—” Dean choked on the immeasurable ire Castiel’s eyes held when they met his. This was it; it was time for Dean to atone for his sins. “You should turn me over. Diplomacy is your best chance to save your people.”

“Well?” Abaddon prodded.

Castiel kept his eyes on Dean, the muscle in his cheek jumping slightly as he clenched and unclenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. For the first time in decades, Dean had no idea what Castiel was thinking. It would be best for everyone if he simply handed Dean over to the Fomóraigh. Certainly whatever execution Abaddon might plan would be less painful than living without Castiel. Or living with the entirely blank way Castiel looked at him now.

“Absolutely not,” Castiel said finally. He turned back toward Abaddon, features set in determination. “I will no more hand you Dean than hand you my crown.” He stood straight and tall, his chin up and his gaze fierce. Every line of his face and body was defiance. Dean should have known that Castiel wouldn’t give in to someone like Abaddon. 

“You are making the wrong choice, Castiel,” Michael said, loud enough for everyone in the court to hear. Abaddon, for the first time since their arrival, turned her full attention to the Unseelie Spymaster. “You will bring death upon your people and mine if you do not do as the king asks.” Dean watched him turn to Castiel, eyes burning brightly. There was something in them, something Dean couldn’t put his finger on at that moment because he was too far fallen into despair to pay proper attention.

Abaddon raised an eyebrow. “You should listen to this one, Castiel. He’s very smart.”

“Tá mo chinneadh déanta agam!” Castiel shouted. “I will not turn Dean over to you. Unlike your predecessor, you do not strike me as a person of your word. You will take Dean and execute him, and then you will still bring war against my people.”

If Dean had held out any hope that Castiel had been interested in saving his life, it escaped him then. Of course, Castiel was making strategic choices. He was a king; he had to protect his people. That Dean would be saved by the action was only secondary.

Michael shook his head. “I’ll not throw my lot in with you. I prefer survival,” he said, stepping forward and facing Abaddon and the rest of the Fomóraigh court. He bowed deeply. “Do thábhacht, if it please you, I should like to remain an ally to you and your people. I’ve no interest in aligning myself with those who lack the will to live.”

The filthy bastard was turning tail on Dean and Castiel, and he didn’t even bother to have the decency to wait until they were no longer present to witness it. Dean couldn’t say it was any less than he expected from the Unseelie. Or spiaire in general. He would know. He’d turned his back on his entire people to stay with Castiel and look where it had gotten them all. Some logical part of his mind reminded him that Abaddon couldn’t possibly be his fault, but it didn’t matter. Dean would be weighed down by guilt about her anyway. He had let down everyone around him.

“Very well,” Abaddon said, her eyes on Michael. “You may stay. For now. As for the two fools, take them to the dungeons.” Lillith, the smallest of the Fomóraigh court was the one who stepped off the dais, a chilling smile across her almost child-like face. “I am not entirely without a heart, Castiel. Tomorrow, there will be an execution. You have until then to decide if it will solely be Dean’s, or if you and your entire kingdom shall fall with him.”

It was too much for Dean to bear as Lillith breezed gently past him, and he was compelled—quite literally, involuntarily moved—to follow her. Castiel was silent, pointedly keeping his eyes forward and refusing to meet Dean’s gaze as they were led further into the castle and up innumerable staircases to the highest of the tower dungeons. This was to be Dean’s last night of existence, and it would certainly be his most miserable. He deserved it. Michael, the tergiversator, had been right. It would have been much better for Castiel to have heard the truth from Dean. At least then his conscious would not weigh quite so much.

Lillith never spoke, simply waving a hand and standing in silent wait for a guard to unlock the cell into which Dean and Castiel were thrown together, before disappearing in the direction from whence they had come. Dean found a corner to occupy, sitting on the hard floor with his back to it as he hung his head between his bent knees and clasped his hands against the back of his neck. 

Castiel paced, or at least Dean believed he paced. It sounded like his feet were hitting the floor over and over again, back and forth, but Dean did not look up to check. He couldn’t stand to look at Castiel at that moment, nor the hard anger in his eyes, all directed at Dean. It seemed that hours may have passed before Castiel’s movements still and he spoke.

“Céad bliain,” he said softly, sadly, and Dean winced. “For one hundred years you have shared my bed, possessed my heart. And for the entire time I had no idea who you were.”

That wasn’t true, not really. Dean had always been himself with Castiel; he had simply omitted his origins and original purpose in coming to know Castiel. He said nothing to defend himself, keeping his face hidden so that Castiel would not see the tears that sprang to his eyes and ran down his cheeks.

“You’ve made me a fool, Dean.” Castiel paused, and Dean heard—could almost feel—his heavy sigh. “Is that even your name? Is anything I know of you real?”

“It is my real name,” Dean said softly. “I’ve no defense for what I’ve done, Castiel.” 

Castiel scoffed. “Yes, that is certainly true. You lied to me for a century. You entranced me, made me believe you loved me. And to what end?”

Dean shook his head. “I do love you, Castiel. Go fírinneach, is féidir liom.” There was a hand fisting in his hair, and suddenly Castiel was jerking his head up violently, forcing Dean to blurilly meet his stern, irate gaze.

“Feed me no more of your lies, fealltóir!” 

A surge of anger raced through Dean’s blood and he rose to his feet, the pretense of Castiel’s strength surpassing his own no longer necessary now that his secret had been brought to light. “It’s true; I am a traitor,” he said, taking Castiel’s wrist and pulling it away from his head. “To my people. To my parents. To my brothers. But not to you, Castiel. Never to you.”

Castiel’s surprise at Dean’s reaction was momentary, then he was sneering angrily. “You expect me to believe you now?” He wrenched his arm from Dean’s grip. “I know nothing of you, Dean. Nothing of who you truly are. Everything we’ve shared in our time together has been a lie!”

“Believe my words or do not,” Dean said, his ire twisting his expression into a vicious grimace. “If you perish tomorrow, it will not matter what you believe. Your people need you, Castiel. Let them execute me while you make your escape and prepare for the battle to come.”

The sharp impact of Castiel’s hand across Dean’s cheek was unexpected, and his head snapped to the side. “Is amadán thú!” he shouted as the sting spread like fire through Dean’s face. “I cannot do that.” Pain tinged those last words. 

“If the Seelie Kingdom is to survive this,” Dean replied, turning to face Castiel again. He gripped the faerie by both shoulders and roughly shook him once. “You must do this. Caithfidh tú, Castiel. My life is unimportant. It reaches its end either way. Without you, it has no reason to continue.”

Castiel’s serious blue eyes examined his face for a long moment before he stubbornly shook his head. “No. I will find another way. And you… beidh tú i do chónaí leis an méid atá déanta agat.”

Dean released Castiel’s shoulders, turning away and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are a stubborn imbecile. There is no other way. Why do you not understand that?”

“I will not stand by and watch you die,” Castiel said, his voice shaking. They were both silent for a long moment after that. “You should have told me, Dean. You should have told me this is why you were so against us coming here.”

“I know, Cas.” Dean sighed. “You’re right. I am a fool. And I’ve ruined everything. But please,” he pleaded, turning to face the faerie once again. “Reconsider. Give me over to Abaddon and go back home. Warn your people. Warn Charlie. Fight her and win. You do not need me for any of that. You… don’t need me at all.” Despite the truth in his words, it hurt to say them. Everything about this was an ocean of pain for Dean. He never wanted to hurt Castiel, never wanted to hurt anyone.

Castiel stared at him thoughtfully, then reached out and brushed his fingertips against Dean’s cheek where there surely would have been a mark had Dean been as human as he appeared. “Is this your true face?”

“This is the face I choose, and that makes it true for me,” Dean replied as Castiel pulled his hand away.

The faerie opened his mouth as if to say something else when a soft thud sounded outside the bars of their cell. They both turned toward it, listening intently. Another thud, and then someone appeared from the shadows.

“Michael?” Dean questioned. “What are you doing here?”

“I am attempting to free you from the confines of this cage,” he replied, holding a key in his hand. The flesh of his palm sizzled, smoke floating upward from it. “The fact that everything in this tower appears to be crafted from iron is complicating matters.” He switched the key from one hand to the other, shoving it into the lock and turning it as quickly as he could, shaking his hands but otherwise showing no signs of what must have been excruciating pain.

Dean wasted no time at all grabbing the iron bars of the cell door and wrenching it inward, ignoring the fact that the iron did as much damage to him as it had to Michael. He ushered Castiel out quickly, then stopped to look at Michael. “I was certain you turned your back on us.”

“I am an infiltrator, Dean. A spy.” Michael smiled. “You know as well as I do that people like us are nearly entirely useless when locked away in a lonely spire. There was no way to avoid the two of you being trussed up, and in order for us to garner any information, I knew I would have to stay in the court. Fortunately, not everyone standing on that dais was who they appeared to be.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked quietly.

Michael shook his head. “We need to escape this tower before we all are caught. I shall lead you to safety and we can discuss this more once we have arrived.” He pushed past Castiel and beckoned for the two of them to follow.

Feeling foolish for not having caught onto Michael’s ploy immediately, Dean saw the dark faerie in an entirely new light. He took Castiel’s hand in his and followed Michael down the stairs, keeping low and out of sight in the shadows cast between torches. The trip down seemed almost more interminable than the trip up had been, but of course, they had to move more slowly, stealthily this time. It was easy to see how Michael had obtained the role of the master of spies. He slipped in and out of sight easily, almost as though he was one with the shadows. Dean was only able to keep track of his movements because of his own experience, though he was far less skilled than Michael.

They paused a moment, ducking into shadow as the large, shambling figure of a guard passed by them and Dean felt Castiel’s breath against his ear. “Do you think it wise to follow him?” he asked, a barely audible whisper.

Dean turned to face him and they were so close together it would have been nothing to brush their lips together. Resisting the urge, Dean leaned in close to Castiel’s ear to answer, “You wanted to find another way. Michael has done that.” He hesitated, wetting his lips with his tongue. “I know it is far too much to ask of you now, but I need you to find it in your heart to trust me. Just this one last time.”

Castiel looked at him in the darkness, and Dean couldn’t tell if the shadow playing across his countenance was a product of the flickering torches or of his own deceit. “Lead the way,” he said after a moment.

Michael was moving again, silent and fluid, somehow intrinsically knowing where to go next to remain hidden from the common view, and slowly but surely they made their way out of the obsidian palace. It was easier to quicken their steps once they were outside under the ink-black sky, travelling the nearly deserted streets of Ifreann.

Dean and Castiel had no cloaks to shield them from the unnaturally chill air, and so they both shivered in it as they followed Michael through lightless alleys toward the outer edges of the city. It seemed that hours passed before they reached the barrier, and Dean’s fingers had long since grown numb from the cold. Even so, he kept a tight hold of Castiel’s hand as he pulled the faerie along behind him until they reached their destination.

It was little more than a shack some distance outside the city, but Michael rapped at the door—three quick knocks and then two spaced further apart—and waited for the door to open. When it did, firelight poured from it, illuminating the tall frame of a long-haired man in the entrance. 

“Dean?” the man questioned softly, disbelief tingeing his voice.

Dean dropped Castiel’s hand and pushed past Michael immediately. “Sammy?” he asked, throwing his arms around the younger brother he hadn’t laid eyes on in over a century. “Brother, I have missed you so very much.” He felt Sam’s arms close tightly around him and for a moment Dean could pretend that all was well and he had simply been abroad for far too long.

“I hate to interrupt this heartbreaking reunion,” Michael chimed in, “but it would really be best if we could all make our way inside.”

Reluctantly, Dean released his brother from their embrace. “Yes, you’re right, of course.” 

Michael and Castiel filed into the little cabin behind him and Sam leaned momentarily out the door, looking around as if to ensure that no one had seen the arrival of the fugitives before he closed and barred it. 

“Where are mother and father?” Dean asked, looking around for evidence of the rest of the family.

Sam sighed, looking down at Dean and shaking his head. “They passed into the next realm nearly seventy years ago. I wanted to contact you, to inform you of their deaths. But I was told I could not, so as to preserve your mission.”

Dean’s initial jubilation and relief at seeing his brother faded, quickly replaced by the ever-more familiar weights of guilt and grief. “And young Adam?” he asked.

“He is well, so far as I am aware. Took after you, that one did. He’s been away on some mission or another for ten years or so.”

Sam looked different than when Dean last saw him, even in the human form he’d adopted. His hair was brown and shaggy, hanging nearly to his shoulders, and he looked older. It was nothing physical that aged him, but a wisdom in his eyes that made him seem far beyond his years, the sort of look that came from seeing terrible things and being driven to change them. Sam had always been an idealist. Now it seemed he had the knowledge and experience to support his ambitions to change things in the Otherworld for the better.

“I have missed many things in my long absence,” Dean observed, trying for a smile and failing miserably. “We have much to discuss, but I fear now is not yet the time.”

Nodding, Sam looked over Dean’s shoulder. “Yes, it shall have to wait for a more peaceful moment. There is a dangerous plot afoot, and we will all be needed to put things to right.” 

At that moment, Dean turned around and was met with familiar, piercing blue eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Castiel.

“You?” he shouted, moving so he was in front of Dean almost protectively. His hands fisted at his sides and he looked to Michael. “All of this and you’ve brought us to a member of the high court? One who watched Dean and I be dragged away?”

Cain took a step forward, raising his empty hands in front of him. “I understand your trepidation, Castiel, king of the Seelie fae, but I am not what you think I am. I can assure you that I am your firm ally here.”

“Castiel,” Michael interjected. “Please calm yourself. It has been a difficult day for all, but Cain is not Fomóraigh. He is one of the spiaire I came here in search of.”

Dean was taken aback by this information. Cain had been the one to teach Dean everything he knew about the trade of infiltration, his mentor. His skill was what all spiaire in the Dark Realm yearned for. To learn that Cain was, in fact, a subordinate of Michael’s? “You wanted me to discover you followed us,” he concluded, turning his gaze on Michael.

He inclined his head, acquiescing to Dean’s discovery. “I could not have come here and done this on my own. In truth, I never lost contact with Cain or the others that are embedded here. I received word of a plan set in motion by Abaddon long before she stole the throne.”

“And what exactly is this plan? Why did you have need of Castiel and myself?” Dean asked. He could only marvel at the skill with which Michael had manipulated them; there was not a shred of anger toward him. How could there be? They were far too much alike.

“What Abaddon wishes to do is dangerous to far more than just the Fomóraigh,” Cain said. “And it is beyond the skill of Michael and myself to stop her. We have more allies, but they are locked away in hidden places. Abaddon is far too intelligent for our good.”

Dean shared an unspoken conversation with Castiel, and it was so comfortably familiar that he could almost forget the rift that lie between them now. “Tell us everything.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irish Translations  
_níos mó_-usurper  
_ar phian an bháis_\- on pain of death  
_Agus má fhaigheann tú bás_\- and if you die  
_tamall suí_\- sit  
_Déan é_\- Do it

They had been sitting around the square table in Sam’s little cabin for hours, listening to the information Cain had gleaned over several centuries of spywork. It was a marvelous tale he wove, so outlandish that Dean was nearly unable to believe it. But from his own knowledge, he had to concede that it explained a good many things about the current condition of Ifreann.

“As you surely know,” Cain said, meeting all of their eyes in turn, “our realm is not the only one that exists. Those that we are most familiar with are the Earthly realm of humans and the Next realm, where our souls go to rest after death on this plane of existence. There are many others, uncountable in number. With the proper spellwork, portals of a sort can be opened between them.”

“Like fae open portals into the Earthly realm,” Castiel agreed. He listened eagerly and Dean could not help but watch him, and observe the way the light of the fire danced across his skin.

Cain nodded and leaned forward. “Some realms are significantly more difficult to access, requiring immensely powerful sorcery and blood sacrifices. Abaddon seeks to reach the Void, to summon some impossibly powerful abomination and bind it to herself. If she is successful in bringing one those oldest of beings here, it will be the end of the Otherworld.”

“She seeks a power which cannot be contained,” Michael added. “When Crowley, the son of one of the most powerful sorceresses in the Dark Realm, advised Abaddon that she was doomed to fail in this, she deposed him and usurped the throne.”

“Why do the Knights stand with her? Surely they don’t support this course of action?” Dean asked.

Cain sighed. “With the exception of Lillith, they do not. However the law here is binding. The Knights of Ifreann are loyal to the throne ar phian an bháis.”

Castiel frowned, slowly rubbing a finger across one eyebrow. “Should that not mean they are loyal to the rightful king? The throne belongs to him that inherited it.”

“Perhaps that is how the Seelie throne works, Castiel,” Sam said gently, “but here things are much more… volatile. The throne is not won solely by inheritance. Many rulers of the Dark Realm obtained the throne by force. As such, it is a requisite that the Knights swear fealty to whomever occupies the throne. In this case, the níos mó Abaddon.”

“How do we prevent her success?” Dean asked. Really, it was the only important question at that point, and he was surprised no one else had asked it yet. They were all too busy trying to understand when they should only be concerned with stopping it, stopping her.

“The surest way to prevent this from happening is to eliminate Abaddon and restore Crowley to the throne before she is able to begin the spell to summon the beast,” Cain answered simply. “Things become more complex if we are unable to do that.”

“But however complicated it may be,” Michael interjected, “Abaddon must be killed.”

Were it up to Dean, he would leave the little shack right then and return to the city to run Abaddon through himself. But if it were a task as easy as that, Dean was fairly certain Crowley would never have been deposed. Or, at the very least, that Cain would have already put an end to this. A meeting of his eyes and Castiel’s told Dean he was not the only one that thought there must be more to this.

“Why does she still live, then?” Castiel asked. 

It was Sam who spoke up this time. “She is far more powerful than any Fomórach has a right to be,” he observed. “The entire city has been affected by it; I’m sure you noticed. The only way I have found to account for it is that Abaddon has already established some connection to the void, and draws power from it.”

“Then how can we stop her?” Dean asked. “And if we cannot stop her, how do we stop whatever creature she called forth?”

Cain set a long dagger down in the center of the table. It was a hideous thing, made almost entirely of sharpened bone. Instead of a serrated edge, one side of the blade was lined with teeth—human teeth, it appeared—and Dean momentarily wondered what Cain had done for such a weapon to come into his possession. The hilt of it was simply strands of leather wrapped around part of the bone, so that one could grip it without being sliced open. It took only one look to know the blade was heavily cursed.

“This dagger may be our only chance,” he explained, but he did not appear to be pleased by the idea of having to use it. It made Dean wonder how bad the curse must be. “It will not work, however, on its own. There is a spell—a curse—that must accompany it, binding the blade and its wielder. The consequences—”

“I shall take on this burden,” Dean interrupted. Consequences be damned; it wasn’t as if they would matter if they failed to halt Abaddon’s plot. “Can Sam perform the magic?”

His brother, certainly the scholar of the group, had always had a talent for sorcery. “It requires more power than I possess,” Sam said softly. “And it is far too dangerous for you to simply agree to take on the responsibility with no care for the consequences.”

“What may happen to me is inconsequential,” Dean replied, shaking his head and looking away. If any of them noticed the blur of tears in his eyes, they did not say. “Certainly if the fate of all the people of the Otherworld rest upon this decision. I will have no argument about it, Sam. I shall take on the curse of this blade and that is absolutely final.”

The room was silent for a while after that, no one having the proper words to respond to Dean’s reckless offering of his own body, life, soul—he truly did not know what the blade might do to him, and he could not be bothered to care. If he could save the Fomóraigh, his brother, Castiel? Dean would sacrifice any and all parts of himself. 

It was Castiel who eventually broke the silence. “Perhaps I have sufficient power to complete the spell,” he said softly, sparing an impassive glance at Dean. It was impossible to know what he was thinking, but Dean wasn’t sure Castiel’s motivation mattered. As long as someone was able to do what needed to be done.

“It’s possible,” Sam said tentatively. “Certainly Crowley would have enough power as the king here. I would imagine that you and he are similarly able to draw upon the energies of the Otherworld.” Castiel nodded, confirming this assumption. “But Castiel, we’ve no way of knowing the effect the curse will have on Dean. Or on you. There is barely any record of the blade at all, and most of that is vague at best.”

“Then I suppose we should make record of it ourselves,” Castiel said. He would not back down any more than Dean would.

It hurt Dean’s heart a little bit, the little reminder of something that he loved about Castiel. He would be lying to himself if he said there wasn’t some small part of him that hoped whatever this blade was would kill him. Guilt was a crushing weight, Dean was learning. And each time he looked at Sam, he was reminded of important things in his brother’s life that he should have been there for. And when he looked at Castiel, he was reminded of his lies. Already it had begun to pile on his chest so heavily that it was difficult for Dean to breathe.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Sam agreed shakily, looking down and toying with his fingers as his hands rested on the table. He smiled—it wasn’t really a smile, but an attempt at one—but it was obvious that he was frightened, unsure, and unhappy. He was simply trying, as he always did, not to allow his emotions interfere with his ability to make decisions. It was something Dean envied Sam for, as Dean was clearly unable to exercise that level of control over his own heart. “It has, however, been a long day for us all. We should rest before proceeding any further.”

The group slowly broke apart, Cain and Michael staying at the table and discussing putting their plans into action. Sam showed Castiel into another part of the cabin, where he would be sleeping, and Dean found himself sitting in front of the fire, ankles crossed in front of him like a child as he rested elbows against knees and cradled his face in his hands. He was silently staring into the flames when he felt Sam’s large frame sink down to occupy the space next to him. They remained there, watching the fire and awkwardly invading one another’s personal space, for some time before Sam broke the silence.

“Are you agreeing to do this because of the distress that hangs in the air between you and Castiel?” 

Neither of them looked at the other as they spoke. “Of course not,” Dean lied. “This is a much bigger disaster than me or the collapse of my relationship with Castiel.”

“Is it really so bad, Dean?” Sam asked quietly. “He is angry now, yes, but perhaps with time…”

“I don’t believe I shall be so lucky.” Dean sighed and shook his head. “When Abaddon told him, it was… the way he looked at me… I don’t deserve his forgiveness, Sam. I don’t deserve his affections.”

Sam was looking at him; Dean could feel his brother’s eyes upon him. “Agus má fhaigheann tú bás, Dean? What then?”

“If Abaddon dies with me, does it truly matter?”

“I think it would matter much more to Castiel than you believe. It most certainly matters to me.” Sam clapped a large hand down onto Dean’s shoulder, squeezing it in a way that would have been a comfort, had Dean been willing to accept it as such. “You should bed down for the night, brother. Tomorrow we save the Otherworld.”

Dean stayed where he was as Sam stood and retired to his own bed. Eventually Cain and Michael also took to bedrolls, right there on the floor near the table. Dean did not sleep. Instead, he took the open book of spells off of Sam’s table and did his best to familiarize himself with the magic that would tie him with—according to the text—the First Blade. When he had done that, and still had no better understanding of the blade or the curse, Dean quietly searched for parchment and a quill. 

For several hours, he sat at the table and penned a letter. Dean thought Castiel deserved to know who he had shared his bed with for so very long. He had never been very artful with words, but it didn’t matter now. It took nearly the rest of the night to detail the important parts of his life: his childhood and family, his joining the spiaire in search of adventure, meeting Castiel and falling in love with him. Everything up to that very moment. Then he folded several sheets of parchment, wrote Castiel’s name on the outermost, and tucked it away. Should Dean pass into the Next realm, Castiel would know that letter was meant for him. Dean could only hope he would still care enough to read it.

Michael was the first to wake, rising with the sun and raising an eyebrow at Dean. Was it that obvious that he’d never been to sleep? Michael said nothing about it; he simply sat at the table across from Dean and started looking over the expansive notes that he and Cain had made the night before. Sam joined them before long, and was bringing a dish piled high with pork when Cain rose and Castiel appeared from the room in which he had slept. 

The meat was fresh, still warm from the fire it had cooked over and Dean’s mouth watered. It was his favorite, and it had been an overly long time since he’d eaten it. Without the necessity of pretense, and given that he very well knew he may not survive the next days, Dean enjoyed the meal unabashedly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel raise a brow at him, but he resisted the urge to put down the pork he was devouring and ask for some kind of fruit. Castiel was, in fact, the only one of the men that did not partake in the meat Sam had cooked for them.

Breakfast was a silent affair, the atmosphere wrought with the tense electric energy of a group of men that knew they may very well be walking to their deaths when the meal was done. They lingered a little longer at the table than they otherwise may have, but finally they could delay no further. Dean was the first to rise, looking at Castiel.

“Are you ready, mo Ardrí?” Dean’s heart hurt at how Castiel winced at the moniker. He hadn’t intended to use it; it was merely habitual. For Dean it was much more than just a respectful, formal way to address the king. It was a sincere term of endearment. And while both remained true for Dean, it was clear that Castiel did not believe Dean held him in either esteem any longer.

Castiel nodded and rose as well, picking up the book containing the magic they would be performing as well as the First Blade. “Sam, if you would show me where I may perform the spell?” 

Sam rose, taking the lead, and Castiel and Dean filed in behind him. They did not have far to go in the tiny cottage, but Sam led them to a private space that was just large enough for the ritual Dean had thoroughly examined the night before. On one wall hung a low shelf full of supplies. “I can stay, if you wish,” he said, though Dean wasn’t sure which of them Sam was asking.

“I believe it would be best if Dean and I remained alone for the duration,” Castiel responded. “We do not, as yet, know if there will be any adverse effect on those within proximity. I would, however, appreciate it if you remain close.” His eyes flickered to Dean for a split second before they returned to Sam. “In the event that things do not go to plan.”

“Very well. I will be in the next room.” With that, Sam left and closed the wooden door behind him. If not for the single lit torch in the corner, the small space would have been pitch dark, but as it was, Dean could still see Castiel’s face relatively clearly.

He didn’t look at Dean, simply opening the book and pulling the necessary things off the shelf. Dean stood with his back against the opposite wall and watched as Castiel drew symbols Dean only recognized from his studying of the ritual the night before. Most of the spell was, in fact, entirely unintelligible to Dean. He didn’t recognize the language or the runic symbols, or even half of the necessary ingredients. And yet, Sam somehow had everything they required right there on a tiny shelf. He had either delved much more deeply into sorcery than Dean knew, or he had known Dean would arrive there and agree. Or, even more terrifying, Sam had been planning to take on the responsibility of the First Blade himself.

The last seemed the most likely.

It was supremely awkward, being in this tiny room with Castiel stoically ignoring him. It wasn’t until the symbols were all drawn, and a brass bowl and the First Blade sat in the center of the circle that Castiel even looked at Dean.

“Tamall suí,” Castiel ordered, gesturing to the space across from him. 

Dean looked down at the floor. There was a gap in the sigils there, just wide enough that Dean could kneel between them and sit back on his heels. He rested his hands comfortably on his thighs and looked at Castiel. The faerie’s face was intense, focused, but Dean knew him well enough to see that Castiel was anxious. Dean didn’t allow himself to think that, perhaps, that undercurrent of fear came from not knowing what might happen to Dean.

Castiel scanned a page of the book again and, without looking up, said, “Remove your shirt.”

There was no reason for Dean to hesitate, Castiel had seen him bare-chested and thensome more times than he cared to keep track of. But his heart skipped a violent beat and it took a moment for Dean to reach for the hem of it and pull it off over his head. In the interest of preserving all of the symbols, Dean neatly folded the fabric and tucked it behind his feet and out of the way. 

“I am going to begin now,” Castiel said softly, dipping fingers into the pasty mixture that half-filled the brass bowl. 

The words of the spell were as unrecognizable spoken as written, at least to Dean, but Castiel’s soft voice was confident and steady. He reached across the distance between their bodies, dragging his fingers across Dean’s chest and face. The paste smelled sweet and spicy, and Dean’s nose twitched with it. He could feel electric power building in the air of the tiny room and his heart sped, though he was entirely unsure if it was from anticipation or sheer terror. 

Castiel’s voice continued to fill the room as he spread the paste across the surface of the toothy bone knife and then placed it in the bowl. The practice of magic suited him, Dean thought as he watched. He seemed more comfortable than he had since their arrival in Ifreann, though Dean wasn’t sure he would call it relaxed. The energy that made the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end seemed to emanate directly from Castiel, shining in his bright blue eyes and shimmering across his smooth, pale skin. He reached into a smaller dish next to him, taking a pinch of whatever was in it, and sprinkling it into the bowl as he spoke the final line of the spell. A brilliant flash of sparks nearly blinded Dean, but it faded quickly, leaving behind nothing but an afterimage. 

Reaching into the large bowl, Castiel gripped the leather wrapped handle of the First Blade. He held it in one hand, and with the other he reached for Dean’s wrist. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he turned Dean’s wrist so that the inside of his forearm faced the ceiling. Dean shuddered at the strange power that seemed to pass between them.

Castiel looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time since the ritual began. There was doubt in his gaze, and fear. He hesitated, tongue moving slowly from one corner of his mouth to the other, wetting his lower lip. “Are you certain you want this, Dean?” he asked, fingers tightening around Dean’s wrist just a little. “It does  _ not _ have to be you.”

For a fleeting moment, Dean allowed himself the illusion that Castiel still cared about his well-being. Then he steeled himself, ignoring the part of him that sought freedom and screamed for him to run as far from this as he was able. “Déan é, Cas,” he said quietly. He most definitely was not certain he wanted to do this, but what choice did he have?

“Very well,” Castiel responded, eyes softening as he pressed the knife into the skin of Dean’s arm.

It was excruciating, a pain like nothing Dean had ever felt before. Castiel was drawing on him a mark that would tie his existence to the blade with unknown consequences. The space around his arm and the knife glowed red, and that glow was like a living thing, roiling through the air like so much smoke. It surrounded Dean and he cried out as the agony spread through his entire being—his body, his mind, his soul—and then breath was stolen from his lungs. The last thing he saw as his eyes rolled up into his head was a look of horror across Castiel’s delicate features. Dean could do nothing about it, and somehow that bothered him much more than the agony of a binding curse ever could.


	9. Chapter 9

His dreams were violent, and felt more like memories than imagination. The teeth of the First Blade biting into flesh, cutting through bone. Blood spattering across a face that was Dean’s but was also entirely unfamiliar with its long, gaunt form and corpse-gray skin. It was the first face of many, but each incarnation had one pattern in common.

Death.

Dean was gasping for air when his eyes opened again. His body no longer ached, instead a might—a power—unlike anything he had ever experienced swam in his blood. It was exhilarating. It was terrifying. The blade called to him, like a small voice in the back of his mind, urging him to take it up and sate it with the blood of his foes. Dean had fought in battles before, had felt the bloodlust—the barbaric pride and pleasure at taking down one’s enemy. This was like that.

But it was so much more.

It was a compulsion. Dean felt incomplete lying there without the blade in his hand. It occupied nearly all the space of his mind and he was sure he would never be able to think clearly again. At least, not until he felt the brush of the leather—Dean knew now that it was no animal skin—against his calloused warrior’s palms. A small part of him that was still free wondered if satiating the blade would calm the urges or simply make them worse.

For some reason, Dean was startled by the fact that it was his brother that leaned over him, concern in his hazel eyes, instead of Castiel. “Where is the blade?” Dean asked, then blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. He had fully intended to ask about Castiel, but a primal need to be in possession of the bone was overriding his other interests. 

Sam’s head tilted to one side, but he did not answer. Instead, he left the room and returned a moment later to press the blade into Dean’s waiting hand. Dean sighed in relief as his fingers closed tightly around it and he sat up. His thoughts were immediately much clearer and he looked down at himself, some part of him needing to see with his own eyes that he was still whole and intact. 

On the outside, nothing about Dean’s body appeared to have changed, other than the strange marking on the inside of his forearm where Castiel had cut him with the First Blade. It was a rune, raised and red, that in its shape reminded Dean of a scythe, two short lines beneath what would have been the blade looked like blood flying from a weapon. It struck him as odd that there was no pain as the symbol had been literally sliced into his flesh. How much time had passed since the ritual?

“Where is Castiel?” Dean asked finally, looking up into his brother’s eyes. The spell had somehow changed him, and he was quite certain he didn’t like it.

Sam smiled, seeming to relax, if only a little. “Just in the other room. He is concerned for you but otherwise well.” 

Dean nodded, looking past Sam to the closed door behind him. It was good to hear that Castiel was unaffected by the spell. Dean was more than a little afraid, unsure of his own wellbeing. The blade whispered in the back of his mind, urging him to kill. Though still quiet, it was strangely overwhelming. It was difficult to resist the compulsion to swipe the knife across the smooth skin of Sam’s throat only an arm’s length away. This, what Dean was feeling in that very moment, must have been the unknown curse. The violent, bloody dreams he’d woken from were, he knew now, visions of past and future. 

Dean harshly swallowed the terror that built in his chest at the revelation. Perhaps he should have been more concerned with the consequences of the spell. “We must end this, Sam. Now.”

No more time could be wasted. 

Dean hoped that slaying Abaddon would be enough to silence the blade. He refused to consider what might happen if it was not. Rising to his feet, Dean pushed past Sam and into the main room of the cabin where the others were. His grip tightened around the First Blade enough to make his knuckles ache. That voice in the back of his mind grew louder and the bloodlust rose. Dean’s heart leaped into his throat when he finally met Castiel’s eyes. His head tilted to one side, his eyebrows drew together, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at Dean. Unable to hold his gaze, Dean looked away, pausing for only a moment before slamming through the door without waiting for the others.

The air outside was still cold, bitingly so. Dean only felt it in an odd, detached way, almost as if he was no longer entirely present in his own flesh, and he wondered briefly if the overwhelming energy of the blade came from the Void. Some part of him knew it was foolish to rush through the fields and into the city with no plan or strategy. The rational part of his mind that told him so was dwindling, the whispers of the curse coursing through him becoming a mind-numbing, thought-quieting roar of murderous intent. The only thought that seemed to stick permanently in the darkening storm of bloodlust was that he needed to get away from those people that he cared for. Dean could not be near Sam or Castiel like this, not when he was so consumed.

He barely felt the energy of Ifreann’s barrier prickling against his skin as he passed through it. Each step toward the palace drew Dean’s longing for battle out further until it was much more than just a desire to kill. He wanted to hear the screams of pain as he cut down the enemy; he wanted their blood dripping from his dagger and his hands, splattering his skin, and soaking into the earth at his feet. Dean wanted to revel in the fear that would be the last emotion in their eyes as the light of life faded from their beings. It was fortunate that the streets were deserted, not a single Fomóraigh in his path. 

“Abaddon!” Dean called out as his feet carried him forward through the entrance hall, his voice a deep, dark, unearthly echo of its normal resonance. The throne room was empty, and anger boiled Dean’s blood in his veins. He could no longer tell where his own fury stopped and that of the First Blade began. His already sharp senses seemed enhanced, the lines of the throne and dais much clearer than they should have been in the dimly lit throne room. Something in the air smelled wrong, and Dean paused to breathe deeply the cold, sharp tang.

The summoning had begun. Dean growled and moved deeper into the castle, drawn toward the magic being worked by some instinct. It didn’t matter how he knew where she was. It only mattered that he stop her. He kept the First Blade gripped tightly in his hand and raised in front of him as he quickly followed a spiral of stairs down into the bowels below the obsidian palace. Eventually, the space in front of Dean opened into a wide, cavernous chamber filled with a thrum that called to him on an instinctive level. 

Abaddon stood near the center of the chamber, facing away from him with arms outstretched and held high over her head, the Knights of Ifreann forming a protective semi-circle at her back. Crowley was bound to a large altar in front of Abaddon. Dean could hear his fearful cries and see him struggling to free himself. Abaddon’s low alto filled the air with a chant in some unrecognizably ancient tongue. The space above her and Crowley pulsed red and shimmered, the beginnings of a vast portal forming. 

Through it, Dean could see a hideous creature with uncountable tentacles, or perhaps they were arms, that flailed and undulated but never seemed to take on any particular form. It had many burning eyes and all of them seemed to move around what Dean supposed was its face, never taking the same position twice. It might have been the fluctuations of the portal, but the creature almost seemed to shift constantly between realities so that its edges were blurred by constant motion, and it never remained a color long enough for Dean to identify what it was. Even without it being able to pass through into the Otherworld, the creature was terrifying. His mind was unable to accept or explain what he was looking at so he chose, instead, to ignore it.

Stepping into the light, Dean let out a rumbling battlecry in a voice that was not his own. As the five knights turned toward him, time seemed to slow, the ring of metal resounding and reverberating through the expanse as swords were drawn from sheaths. Dean’s body moved of its own accord, feet pounding against the stone beneath him as he charged. The knights surrounded him as he drew close, and he slashed at Ramiel with the knife in his hand. A dark smirk crossed Dean’s face as the dragonesque man dodged backward, out of the way of the blade. 

Even as a trained spy and warrior, the prospect of facing the five Fomóraigh charged with protecting the life of the king should have been daunting. Especially all at once. But all Dean felt was a joyous thirst for battle as he dodged the first swing of a sword. It barely missed him, creating a breeze over his face as it cut through the air. Dean allowed his body, his instincts, and the power of the First Blade take over, moving fluidly to one side and then the other to avoid swinging weapons.

Dagon was the first of the knights to fall. Dean caught her wrist as she attacked him and twisted it until he heard the sickening crack of bone and she cried out. Her sword clattered against the stone and her yellow eyes went wide as Dean buried the toothy dagger to the hilt in her chest. Blood spilled from her mouth and splattered across him as he dislodged the blade to turn back to the fight. Dean’s vision was red and his heart pounded violently against his ribs. Still there was some part of him that felt the wrongness of the primal ecstasy the kill gave him, but it was a small part of him and easily ignored.

Azazel and Asmodeus attacked almost as one, and it was impossible for Dean to avoid all of their twin blows. The sharp edge of one sword dragged across his chest, leaving a red line in its wake. There was no pain, only the irate acknowledgment that one of them had made Dean bleed. It fueled his own attacks further, increasing their strength and speed until Dean drove the men backward, knife slashing and cutting into flesh with every precise swing of his arm. He dispatched them both, finally, in a single fluid motion, the First Blade biting into the soft throat of one before being buried in the temple of his partner.

The battle went on like that when Dean turned to face Lillith and Ramiel. Blades clashed and bit, blood spilled and splattered, and in the background Dean heard Abaddon’s steadily chanting voice, Crowley’s frightened shouts, and thundering footsteps. As he buried the knife into the space between Lillith’s ribs, it registered in his mind that the others must have followed him. Dean ignored their presence, keeping his attention on the only thing left standing between him and Abaddon. It was a disappointingly short clash, and Dean only felt partial satisfaction at the squelch of blood over his hand as he sliced Ramiel’s stomach open.

Dean was covered in bruises and small cuts, but no injury serious enough to down him, or even slow him, especially fueled by the curse as he was. Each fallen knight, each drop of blood, only served to excite the blade. It called for more; it wanted to cut down every living thing in his path. When he turned on Abaddon, she had stopped chanting even though the portal was still only partially formed. 

“You,” she snarled, lips curling into an ugly, vicious sneer. “You’re a thorn in my side, traitor. You should never have come back here.”

She was different than the woman who’d sat on the throne when they arrived. She’d grown taller and the armor adorning half of her body seemed part of her flesh now. Long, thick, curving horns extended from her skull and her eyes, though still black, were somehow exponentially emptier, as if the Void lived in them. A long, thick-scaled tail dragged across the ground behind her. The portal above shimmered and undulated with each of her movements as though they were intimately connected, and Dean was quite sure that if he killed Abaddon, the portal would wink out of existence and the terrible creature that waited to pass through would never come.

He didn’t wait for her to speak again, nor did he respond to what she’d already said. Words were useless. Unimportant. They required too much thought. Instead, Dean attacked, stabbing viciously at Abaddon. He could tell already that she was a much more worthy opponent than any of the knights had been. The broadsword she carried was meant to be wielded with two hands, but she bore its weight in one, swinging it in an effortless, broad stroke as she tried to separate Dean’s head from his body. He ducked out of its path, raising his own small blade to slash at Abaddon’s exposed chest but was knocked roughly away by a sweep of her tail.

Dean hit the stone harshly, the air knocked from his lungs as Abaddon laughed and lunged with the tip of her blade. Rolling out of danger, Dean sliced through the air with the First Blade, missing by a hair’s breadth as the point of Abaddon’s sword embedded itself in the floor. He felt a flood of exhilaration as he quickly rose to his feet again, wasting no time charging toward Abaddon again. She knocked his thrust away easily and backhanded him with a gauntleted hand hard enough that Dean fell to the floor and tasted the metallic tang of his own blood in his mouth.

Someone called out his name, but Dean didn’t have the wherewithal to recognize the voice at that moment. He stood and rolled his shoulders, and this time he waited for Abaddon to attack him. She came at him with an overconfident smirk, swinging her huge sword and leaving the expanse of her torso vulnerable. Dropping to his knees, Dean slid under the sword and thrust his knife up into the soft flesh of Abaddon’s stomach, pulling the blade up through skin and muscle to tear her open all the way to the shoulder. She laughed as her sword fell from her limp fingers, and it was a sickening gurgle as blood dripped from her mouth and down over her chin.

Freeing the bloody blade from Abaddon’s body, Dean let her fall limply to the floor. She hadn’t died yet, broken breaths still shuddering in her chest, but already the portal was shrinking. It flickered and flashed brightly, eventually disappearing and leaving the cavern mostly black but for the unsteady shimmer from a few scattered torches.

Dean was covered in vitae and viscera, surrounded by the corpses of his enemies as he’d wished. Still, he wanted more. He looked down at Abaddon’s stilled form and laughed darkly. His blood rushed wildly through his veins and his heart pounded painfully in his chest. There were other heartbeats in the cavern.

Loud, echoing, drumming of hearts pumping under the protection of muscle and bone. The sound made his ears ache. Dean covered them with his hands but couldn’t block out the thud-thud, thud-thud. There was only one way to stop the growing agony, the blade whispered in his mind. One way to silence the beating hearts.

“Dean?” 

A hand closed firmly on his shoulder and Dean reacted immediately, spinning to face the source of the touch. His fingers closed around a wrist and twisted, bending the wrist back so the man attached to it was forced to his knees.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, looking up at Dean with a pained expression. He couldn’t rise, not the way Dean was holding him there by the hand. “Dean, it’s your brother.”

He could hardly hear the words over the beating of Sam’s heart making his head pound until the pain was so great his vision was going black. The First Blade was screaming for blood, and Dean stood there with the knife raised. He tried to fight against the pain, the noise, the primal, all-consuming need that flooded him. His body shook with the effort, a part of him still railing against everything that was happening.

Dean did not want to kill his brother. The First Blade did not care.

Tears streamed from his eyes, burning paths down his cheeks, and Dean’s voice broke when he managed to force the words from his throat. “I’m sorry.” 

His arm swung, plunging the blade down, and it seemed that time slowed nearly to a halt. The sharpened bone was a hair’s breadth from embedding itself in Sam’s flesh when there was a flash of metal and a searing pain in his elbow. Dean cried out, finally able to release his brother as the lower half of the arm that held the mark and the knife was separated from him.

It fell to the floor. Dean could no longer hear the beating hearts of the men that surrounded him. He could see clearly again, the lust for blood gone in an instant. Blood dripped from a long, shining blade. Sam looked at him with terror in his eyes. Crowley was leaned against Michael’s side, his weak form being held aloft by the Unseelie spy. Cain’s wary eyes were on Dean, and his own dagger in hand. Dean fell to his knees, vitae flowing from his severed arm, and his gaze travelled up the sword responsible for his injury until he met blue eyes set in a beautiful, unreadable face.

“Castiel?” Dean asked.

A sudden rush of relief when his mind pieced together the puzzle of what happened.

A hard impact of stone against his side as he weakly fell to the floor.

The blackness of unconsciousness.


	10. Chapter 10

The sun glittered off the shining black walls of the unfamiliar room. No curtain or glass dulled the brightness of it, and it nearly blinded Dean when he opened his eyes. Where was he? How had he come to be there? Dean sat up slowly, reaching back to push himself up and tumbling back to the surface of the soft mattress. He raised his hands in front of his face, and he gasped in surprise, eyes widening as he looked.

“Dean, you’ve woken.” Castiel’s voice was low and heavy with exhaustion and relief. 

Dean was unable to look away from his own mutilated flesh. He flexed the fingers on his left hand, watching each one curl in against his palm, fully present and functioning in the usual way. On the right, there was nothing. No hand, no fingers. Just a short stump ending just below the bend of his elbow. It was so strange. In his mind, he could feel the limb that was intended to exist there, could feel the bend of his wrist and the curl of his fingers. But they were gone. He had no memory of losing half of his arm.

“What happened?” he asked softly, still unable to look away.

Castiel’s hand was on his shoulder, gentle and firm at once. “There was no other way.”

Dean looked over at him then. Castiel knelt next to the bed, watching Dean intently. The corners of his mouth were downturned, his brows drawn together with guilt. Dean reached out, wanting to touch Castiel’s face, to soothe away the pain in his eyes, but stopped short with a shallow, shaking breath when he was faced again with the stump that used to be his arm. No hand to comfort Castiel with. Just an inch or two of smooth, dark, stone-gray skin… Dean’s eyes went suddenly wide and he looked down at himself.

He was no longer in the human form he had adopted for so long. The dark gray skin of the form Dean was born with covered his body. His waist was considerably thinner, his torso longer, and his shoulders wider. It had been ages since Dean last saw himself in this form, but he remembered it clearly. His face would be long and gaunt, cheekbones protruding, chin pointed instead of square, nose shorter and slightly turned up at the tip. He had sharp white teeth, the kind meant for biting and tearing meat. The fingers on the hand that was still intact were long and bony, the nails just slightly overgrown. The only things that would be the same were his eyes. They were always the same bright, bold green. Dean rolled his shoulders and felt them, the one thing he missed about his natural form. His wings. If the room were larger, he would spread them out wide, just to remember how it felt.

“Tá brón orm,” Castiel said quietly, drawing Dean’s attention back to him. “I had to stop you.” 

Dean examined Castiel’s face carefully, unsure what exactly he was apologizing for. The shock of waking to his true form and missing limb was overwhelming and Dean felt numb. It took a long moment for him to stumble upon his first realization. “You took my arm,” he said with far more calm than he felt. Castiel nodded, squeezing his shoulder. Pieces of broken, foggy memory came back to Dean all at once. The ritual. The rune cut into his skin. The slaughter of the knights. Sam frightened and on his knees. Tears blurred Dean’s vision. “I was going to kill Sam.” 

“I could not allow that to happen.” Castiel paused, drawing a shaking breath of his own. “You missed so many things with your family, so much time with your brother. I would never have forgiven myself if I had not done something.” He was apologizing for more than just slicing Dean’s arm off; it was clear in his tone, if not his words.

Dean ran his remaining fingers over the smooth, new end of his arm. It had been healed so there was no scarring. If he hadn’t known better, Dean could have believed the rest of the limb had never existed. “There is no need for apologies or guilt, Cas,” he said finally. “I will need time to grow accustomed to this impairment, but I will survive.” 

A long, heavy silence hung tangibly in the air between them. Dean could not look at Castiel, could not meet his gaze, though he knew it rested on him. “What of the others?”

“They are well. Crowley has recovered from his injuries and retaken his throne. Michael and Cain have both made the choice to stay in Ifreann as the former knights are no longer. Charlotte came and a new accord between our three kingdoms was reached for the betterment of the Otherworld.” Even without looking, Dean knew that Castiel smiled. “Your brother was instrumental in the writing of the accord.”

How much time had passed while Dean slept? Enough that everything had been settled and it seemed that Castiel had become fond of Sam.

Pride swelled Dean’s chest, but it was quickly drowned in a wave of guilt. He had very nearly ended Sam’s life; he’d spent more than a century living a falsehood. Dean was adrift like a ship with no anchor. He couldn’t even be sure of who he was anymore. Perhaps Inias had always been right. Maybe it was his Fomóraigh nature that made him do such things. Or maybe Dean was of a bad sort all on his own. He supposed after everything he had done, the loss of his arm was poor penance. He deserved much worse. Even knowing that, Dean selfishly wanted to wrap himself up in Castiel.

“I suppose, then, that you will soon leave Ifreann,” he said, only barely turning his eyes toward the faerie. He tried to be happy that Castiel was still alive and whole, but Dean didn’t want him to go. Dean didn’t want to live out the rest of his days, which were surely still numbered, without him.

Castiel did not answer that question, surprising Dean by changing the subject completely. “This is your true face?” His soft fingertips brushed against Dean’s jutting cheekbones gently, and Dean shook his head.

“This is the face I was born with, but I have never felt more myself than in the form I chose. The face you knew has always been true.”

Castiel withdrew his hand and Dean mourned the loss. “Dean, I—” he sighed heavily. “You have been lying to me for a very long time, and I am angry. I can’t say honestly that I will ever stop being angry. I wish that you had trusted me enough to tell me. It must have been very difficult for you.”

Dean looked up at him, surprised, but he did not interrupt Castiel.

“I understand, I suppose, why you kept your secret.” He paused for a moment, and if Dean didn’t know the faerie better, he would have taken him for nervous. “Do you want to stay here?”

“This is where I belong,” Dean said, avoiding the obvious answer that he most certainly did not want to stay in Ifreann. “I am quite sure, as I am still a traitor to my people, that Crowley would not allow me to leave if I wished it.”

“Dean, you are many things,” Castiel said, reaching up to cup Dean’s face in his hand and looking at him with sorrowful blue eyes. “Traitor is not on the list. Despite what you may have done, you are a good man. I should very much like it if you would return with me when I leave.”

Tears gathered in Dean’s eyes once more, blurring his vision. “Castiel, you cannot mean that. You don’t know me, not…” he gestured to himself with his good hand as his voice trailed off.

“I do know you.” Castiel moved to sit on the bed with Dean so they were nearly eye-to-eye with barely a handspan of distance between them. “You are courageous, compassionate, intelligent, loving, and loyal. It would be dishonest for me to say I never enjoyed it, but your appearance was never what I came to love, Dean.” Castiel tentatively laid his hand against Dean’s chest, directly over his heart. “I love you. No matter what face you wear. There are many things about you that I do not know, but I would spend the rest of my days learning them. If you will still have me.”

Dean’s heart soared and he leaned forward and rested his forehead against Castiel’s. He was grateful for the time that had passed while he recovered, and for whatever happened to make Castiel find it in himself to forgive Dean. He was overwhelmed by emotion again, but in a completely different way than the moments before. He pressed his lips to Castiel’s and let his eyes close. “I would always have you, Cas.”

Castiel smiled softly. “Then let us return home,  _ gra mo chrói. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was a ride hahahaha
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed the panic-induced writing sessions that created it!
> 
> Kudos and comments are welcome, or you can come yell at me on Tumblr! [CR Noble Writes](cr-noble-writes.tumblr.com)
> 
> Alright guys, until next time. I love all of ya!


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